THE  HARLEQUINADE 


Br  GRANVILLE   BARKER 

THE  MADRAS  HOUSE 

ANATOL 

THE  MARRYING  OF  ANN  LEETE 

THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE 

WASTE 

SOULS  ON  FIFTH 

THREE  SHORT  PLAYS:  rococo:  vote 

BY  BALLOT  :    FAREWELL  TO  THE  THEATRE 
In  Collaboration  ivith  Laurence  Housman 

PRUNELLA 


; 


"  AniM'koi  alwuid  Oohujihlne  he  like  ?      Well,  she  is  just  like  what 

youd  most  like  her  to  he.      She  has  a  rose  in  her  hand." 

Frontispiece.     See  page  26. 


fpHE  HARLEQUINADE 
*■■-  AN  EXCURSION  BY 

DION  CLAYTON  CALTHROP 
AND  GRANVILLE  BARKER 

I: 


t/-c 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1918 


h 


Copyright,  iqi8, 
By  Harley  Granville  Barker 


All  rights  reserved 


"The  Harlequinade"  is  fully  protected  and  must 
not  be  performed  (neither  the  whole  nor  any  parts 
of  it)  without  written  permission.  Professionals 
should  apply  for  this  to  the  authors  in  the  care  of 
the  Publishers;  amateurs,  to  The  Paget  Dramatic 
Agency,  25  West  45th   Street,   New  York   City. 


Published,  March,  1918 


JUST  A  WORD   IN  YOUR  EAR 

^OT  to  put  too  fine  a  point  to  it,  this 
isn't  a  play  at  all  and  it  isn't  a  novel, 
or  a  treatise,  or  an  essay,  or  any- 
thing like  that;  it  is  an  excursion, 
and  you  who  trouble  to  read  it  are  the  trippers.- 
Now  in  any  excursion  you  get  into  all  sorts 
of  odd  company,  and  fall  into  talk  with  persons 
out  of  your  ordinary  rule,  and  you  borrow  a 
match  and  get  lent  a  magazine,  and,  as  likely  as 
not,  you  may  hear  the  whole  tragedy  and 
comedy  of  a  ham  and  beef  carver's  life.  So 
you  will  get  a  view  of  the  world  as  oddly  col- 
oured as  Harlequin's  clothes,  with  puffs  of 
sentiment  dear  to  the  soul  of  Columbine,  and 
Clownish  fun  with  Pantaloonish  wisdom  and 
chuckles.  When  you  were  young,  you  used, 
I  think,  to  enjoy  a  butterfly's  kiss ;  and  that, 
you  remember,  was  when  your  mother  brushed 
your  cheek  with  her  eye-lashes.  And  also 
when  you  were  young  you  held  a  buttercup 


377523 


vi        JUST  A  WORD  IN  YOUR  EAR 

under  other  children's  chins  to  see  if  they  liked 
butter,  and  they  always  did,  and  the  golden 
glow  showed  and  the  world  was  glad.  And 
you  held  a  shell  to  your  ear  to  hear  the  sound 
of  the  sea,  and  when  it  rained,  you  pressed 
your  nose  against  the  window-pane  until  it 
looked  flat  and  white  to  passers-by.  It  is 
rather  in  that  spirit  that  Alice  and  her  Uncle 
present  this  excursion  to  you. 

I  suppose  it  has  taken  over  a  thousand  people 
to  write  this  excursion,  and  we  are,  so  far,  the 
last.  And  not  by  any  means  do  we  pretend 
because  of  that  to  be  the  best  of  them  ;  rather, 
because  of  that,  perhaps,  we  cannot  be  the 
best.  We  should  have  done  much  better  — 
if  we  could.  Oh,  this  has  been  written  by 
Greeks  and  Romans  and  Mediaeval  Italians 
and  Frenchmen  and  Englishmen,  and  it  has 
been  played  thousands  and  thousands  of  times 
under  every  sort  of  weather  and  conditions. 
Think  of  it:  when  the  gardeners  of  Egypt 
sent  their  boxes  of  roses  to  Italy  to  make  chap- 
lets  for  the  Romans  to  wear  at  feasts  this  play 
was  being  performed ;  when  the  solemn  Doges 
(which  Alice  once  would  call  "Dogs")  of  Venice 
held  festa  days,  this  play  was  shown  to  the 
people. 


JUST  A  WORD   IN  YOUR  EAR        vii 

And  here  Alice  interrupts  and  says:  *'Do 
you  think  people  really  like  to  read  all  that 
sort  of  thing?  Why  don't  you  let  me  tell  the 
story,  please?  I'm  sitting  here  waiting  to." 
Well,  so  she  shall. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE 

For  some  time  now  she  has  been  sitting  there. 
Miss  Alice  Whistler  is  an  attractive  young 
person  of  about  fifteen  {very  readily  still 
she  tells  her  age),  dressed  in  a  silver  grey 
frock  which  she  wishes  were  longer.  The 
frock  has  a  white  collar;  she  wears  grey 
silk  stockings  and  black  shoes;  and,  finally y 
a  little  black  silk  apron,  one  of  those  French 
aprons.  If  you  must  know  still  more  exactly 
how  she  is  dressed,  look  at  Whistle/s  por- 
trait of  Miss  Alexander. 

What  happened  was  this.  A  pleasant  old  Vic- 
torian art  fancier  (sort  of)  saw  the  child 
one  day,  and  noted  that  her  name  was  Whistler 
(''No  relation''  said  her  Uncle  Edward, 
*'so  far  as  we  know''),  and  ''That's  how  to 
dress  her,"  said  he.  And  thereupon  he 
forked  out  what  he  delicately  called  "The 


2  THE  HARLEQUINADE 


WherewiiHdV'  {'^" Which  sounded  like  a  sort 
of  mackintosh,''  said  Alice  afterwards) ^ 
for  they  couldn't  have  afforded  it  themselves, 
"  You're  still  young  enough  to  take  presents'' 
said  Uncle  Edward.  And  indeed  Alice 
was  very  pleased,  and  saw  that  the  hem  was 
left  wide  enough  to  let  down  several  times. 
And  here  she  is;  the  dress  is  kept  for  these 
occasions. 

Here  she  is  in  a  low  little  chair,  sitting  with  her 
basket  of  knitting  beside  her  on  one  side  of 
a  simply  painted  grey  and  black  proscenium  y 
across  which,  masking  the  little  stage,  blue 
curtains  hang  in  folds.  ''The  blue,"  said 
Miss  Alice  when  she  ordered  them,  "  must 
be  the  colour  of  Blue-eyed  Mary."  The 
silly  shopman  did  not  know  the  flower. 
''Blue  sky  then,"  said  Alice,  "it's  the  blue 
that  all  skies  seem  to  be  when  you're  really 
happy  under  them."  "Reckitt's  blue  is 
what  you  want,"  the  shopman  said,  when 
nothing  seemed  to  do.  Yes;  and  a  very 
^    good  blue  that  is  —  by  lamplight. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  proscenium,  ensconced 
{and  the  word  was  made  to  express  just  this) 
—  ensconced  in  a  porter's  chair  is  Uncle 
Edward.    It  is  an  old  porter's  chair,  for 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  3 

they  seem  not  to  make  them  nowadays. 
This  one  indeed  was  given  to  Uncle  Edward 
by  a  club  that  had  no  further  use  for  it, 
having  cured  the  draughts  in  its  front  hall 
by  putting  up  a  patent  door  that  the  fat  mem- 
bers stuck  in  and  that  tried  to  cut  the  thin 
members  in  half.  A  cross  between  a  sentry- 
box  and  a  cradle  stuck  on  end  it  is,  and  very, 
very  suitable  to  sit  upright  in  and  pretend 
you're  not  asleep.  Years  of  that  sitting  in 
by  porters,  and  of  leaning  against  by  under - 
porters  and  messengers  who  keep  you  awake 
with  their  chatter,  and  of  daily  dusting  and 
rubbing,  have  made  its  leather  uniform 
softly  glow  and  its  brass  buttons  shine  till 
it  looks  a  comfortable  piece  of  furniture 
indeed.  Now  the  side  of  a  stage  is  draughty 
at  the  best  of  times,  and  Uncle  Edward, 
says  he,  is  by  no  means  so  young  as  he  was ' 
{a  real  live  joke  to  him  that  outworn  phrase 
is),  and  how  he  managed  before  he  had  it  he 
really  cannot  think  ! 
However  early  you  come  to  the  performance  you 
always  find  him  there.  For  minutes  and 
minutes  you  may  only  be  aware  of  very  shiny 
square-toed  boots  and  black-trousered  legs 
and  a  newspaper  that  hides  the  rest  of  him. 


J 


4  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

On  most  days  it  will  be  ''The  Times'',  on 
Wednesday  it  may  he  ''Punch'',  and  on 
Saturdays  "The  Spectator."  "That  is  a 
gentleman's  reading,"  he  says.  When  the 
paper  is  lowered,  as  he  turns  a  page,  you 
behold  one  of  those  oldish  gentlemen  with  a 
rather  pleasant  bad  temper  who  really  only 
mean  to  demand  by  it  that  young  people 
shall  pay  them  the  compliment  of  "getting 
round"  them.  As  the  time  of  the  perform- 
ance draws  near  he  is  apt,  at  each  lowering 
of  the  paper,  to  count  you  up  as  you  sit 
there  waiting,  and  if  there  are  not  enough 
of  you  he  looks  very  disapproving  indeed. 

Alice  watches  you  furtively  almost  all  the  time 
as  she  knits  or  crochets.  For  audiences 
make  such  a  difference  to  her,  and  she  is 
always  hoping  for  a  good  one.  It  need  not 
be  a  big  one  to  be  good  {Uncle  Edward  likes 
them  big).  To  be  a  good  audience  is  to 
take  your  share  of  the  performance  by  enjoy- 
ing it  in  a  simple  jolly  way  —  if  you  can. 
That  eases  the  actors  of  half  the  strain,  and 
then  they  can  enjoy  it,  too.  And  if  you  can't 
do  this,  you'd  much  better  go  home. 

When  it  is  quite  near  the  time  to  begin,  you  hear 
the  orchestra  tuning  up.     This  you  should 


THE  HARLEQUINADE 


never  miss.  There  is  nothing  like  it  as  a 
tonic  to  rouse  the  theatre  appetite.  At 
the  sound  of  it  Alice  puts  away  her  knitting, 
and  hopes  her  hair  is  tidy. 

Then  on  a  single  flute  a  little  tune  is  played, 
and  the  child's  eyes  light  up.  Music  excites 
her,  sets  all  the  gaiety  in  her  free.  If  it 
wasn't  for  the  help  that  music  is  she'd  quite 
despair  sometimes  of  getting  through  the  play. 

^^  That's  mine.  That's  my  theme,"  she  says, 
''I've  had  a  piece  of  music  to  myself  because 
every  one  in  this  has  a  piece  of  music.  But 
mine  is — " 

But  Uncle  Edward  has  finally  put  his  paper 
down.  And  now  —  hy  means  of  a  violent 
operation  on  his  waistcoat  —  he  produces 
an  enormous  silver  watch,  like  those  that 
railway  guards  have.  And  he  turns  to 
Alice. 

**  Time,"  he  says  magnificently. 

Alice  looks  doubtfully  at  the  laggards  trailing  to 
their  places  and  snapping  down  the  stalls. 
But  Uncle  Edward  is  adamant  to  her  if 
tolerant  to  them. 

^^  Some  of  'em  always  late,"  and  his  blue  eye 
roves  round.  ''It's  their  dinner.  But  go 
and  begin  your  bit  like  a  good  girl." 


6  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

So  then  Alice  comes  to  the  middle  of  the  stage; 
swallows  a  little  from  nervousness,  and 
begins  .  .  . 

ALICE.  If  you  please,  this  is  going  to  be  a 
Harlequinade  ...  a  real  one.  And  we  begin 
it  at  the  beginning,  which  is  as  many  thousand 
years  ago  as  you  like  to  believe.  It's  about 
how  .  .  .  how  .  .  . 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     Psyche. 

ALICE.  When  I  was  young  I  would  call  her 
Fishy.  It  is  all  about  how  Psyche,  who  is  a 
perfect  darling  .  .  . 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     You  are  not  to  put  bits  in. 

ALICE.  Well,  she  is  a  perfect  darling.  But 
you  don't  see  her  in  the  first  scene.  Now 
Psyche,  who  is  the  Soul,  comes  down  .  .  .  when- 
ever a  baby's  born,  of  course,  a  little  scrap  of 
Psyche  is  sent  down !  .  .  .  But  this  is  how 
the  story  goes  .  .  .  That  she  comes  down 
from  Mount  Olympus  where  the  gods  live  to 
adventure  on  the  earth.  And  in  the  Harle- 
quinade she's  Columbine,  but  that  only  means 
a  dove,  and  a  dove  is  the  symbol  of  the  soul. 
And  anybody  who  is  fond  of  flowers  knows 
that,  because  if  you  look  at  Columbine  flowers 
you  can  see  that  they  are  made  of  doves  with 


THE  HARLEQUINADE 


their  wings  out.  And  so  she  ought  always  to 
be  dressed  in  blue. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.    What's  that? 

ALICE.  Well,  I  like  blue.  She's  a  restless 
adventurous  person,  and  she's  always  running 
away  from  the  other  gods.  For  you  see  the 
Soul  has  need  of  human  love,  and,  of  course, 
gods  that  are  nothing  but  gods  can't  appreciate 
that.  Now  when  she  gets  to  earth  her  wings 
drop  off.  And  when  she  tries  to  get  back  to 
the  gods,  she  can't  until  she  finds  another  love 
as  great  as  hers.  For  two  souls  that  love 
become  more  than  human ;  and  when  their 
earthly  course  is  run  (as  Doctor  Watts  says), 
it  gives  them  wings  again,  and  back  they  can 
fly.    : 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     Pretty. 

ALICE.  But  ...  to  resume.  Mercury,  who 
used  to  spend  week-ends  in  Athens  and  Corinth 
and  those  places,  was  sent  to  try  and  find  her. 
Mercury  has  to  get  old  Charon,  who  is  the 
ferryman  for  rowing  souls  over  the  Styx  .  .  . 
which  is  a  river  all  the  dead  have  to  cross  .  .  . 
and  my  aunt,  who's  dead  and  full  of  fun  .  .  . 
oh,  I'm  sure  she  still  is  full  of  fun  .  .  .  always 
said  it  was  the  most  interesting  place  in  spirit- 
ual geography. 


8  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

UNCLE  EDWARD.    Steady!    Steady! 

ALICE.     You  told  me  she  said  so. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  In  private.  Mercury  gets 
Charon  .  .  .  ? 

ALICE.  To  ferry  him  across.  And  on  the 
earth  side  they  meet  ... 

UNCLE  EDWARD.      Not  SO  fast. 

ALICE.  They  meet  a  Greek  philosopher 
whose  name  is  .  .  . 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     Hipponax. 

ALICE.  Aren't  some  of  these  names  dread- 
fully difficult  to  remember.  Hipponax  has 
just  died,  and  he  is  waiting  to  be  ferried 
over.  And  it*s  rather  awkward  for  him,  as, 
when  he  was  alive,  he  wrote  a  book  to  prove 
there  weren't  any  gods  and  there  wasn't  any 
after  life.  And  then  comes  Momus,  who's  a 
sort  of  half-god,  not  important  enough  to  be 
rowed  over,  but  he  has  swum  the  river  as  he 
wants  to  join  the  party.  Hipponax  stays  to 
look  after  Charon's  boat.  And  that's  how  it 
all  begins.  When  the  three  of  them  get  to 
earth  Mercury's  called  Harlequin,  and  Momus, 
Clown;  and  .  .  .  But  I  tell  you  all  that 
later. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  You  missed  out  again  about 
how  Harlequin  got  his  mask. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE 


ALICE.  Sorry!  So  I  did.  The  Greek  philos- 
opher always  wore  a  mask,  so  that  people 
shouldn't  see  whether  he  was  talking  sense 
or  not.  For  you  can  tell  that  by  looking  at 
people.  And  he  wore  a  cloak  all  patches  to 
pretend  he  was  poor,  because  you  aren't  a 
philosopher  at  all  unless  you're  poor  .  .  . 
there's  no  need.  But  Columbine's  the  nicest. 
You'll  see. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     You're  not  to  take  sides. 

ALICE.     I  wasn't.    They  will  see. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  Ask  George  if  they  are 
ready. 

ALICE.  They  are  always  quite  ready  when  I 
begin. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.      All  right. 

[So  he  takes  up  the  large  wooden  mallet  that 
lies  beside  his  chair  and  says  solemnly  to 
the  atidience, 

As  in  Paris. 

[Then  he  hangs  the  stage  with  it  three  times. 
He  loves  this  classic  touch.  Then  he 
calls  out  to  George  {we  must  suppose)  y 
whom  we  guess  to  be  the  presiding  genius 
atthe^'back''/' Music  r' 


10  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

The  Music  begins.  It  is  a  small  orchestra 
to  he  sure.  But  if  you  have  two  double- 
basses  and  enough  fiddles  on  top  you  can 
manage  to  make  the  flowing  of  a  river 
sound  quite  well.  The  music  makes  you 
think  of  the  Styx  {which  is  a  deep  basSy 
never  ending,  four  in  a  bar,  sort  of 
river)  before  ever  Uncle  Edward  and 
Alice  draw  you  the  curtains  and  show 
you  the  picture.  Rather  an  awesome  pic- 
ture it  is  with  the  cold  blue  river  and  the 
great  black  cliffs  and  the  blacker  cypresses 
that  grow  along  its  banks.  There  are  signs 
of  a  trodden  slope  and  a  ferry,  and  there's 
a  rough  old  wooden  shelter  where  pas- 
sengers can  wait;  a  bell  hung  on  the 
top  with  which  they  call  the  ferryman. 
And  under  this  now  sits  Hipponax,  the 
Greek  philosopher ;  and  he  is  ringing  the 
bell  very  violently  and  unphilosophically 
indeed. 

Alice  goes  back  to  her  seat.  She  can  see 
the  scenes  from  there  by  twisting  her  head 
far  round,  and  she  often  does.  For 
whether  things  on  the  stage  go  right  or 
wrong,  they  never  go  the  same  way  twice^ 
so  it  is  always  interesting. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  11 

ALICE.     This  is  the  banks  of  the  Styx.     That 
is  .  .  .  Oh,  I  said  that  before. 
HIPPONAX.     Ferry!    Hie!     Ferry! 

[He  rings  and  rings,  but  only  the  black  cliffs 
echo  back  the  hollow  sound  of  the  belL 

HIPPONAX.  So  I  was  right !  There  is  no 
ferryman  ;  there  are  no  gods.  But  yet,  though 
I  died  of  brain  fever  yesterday  afternoon,  here 
still,  in  some  sense,  am  I.  Which  confirms  the 
fact  that  I  am  an  extraordinary  man.  In  the 
last  world  I  proved  that  there  were  no  gods 
because,  said  I  ...  it  was  very  simple  ...  I 
have  never  seen  them.  And  in  this  world  .  .  . 
if  by  any  means  I  can  get  across  that  river  .  .  . 
ril  prove  in  a  second  volume  that  there  are 
none  here  either. 

[And  now  comes  Mercury,  who  is  as  beautiful 
and  as  calm  as  the  statue  of  him  that 
rests  —  as  if  but  for  a  moment  —  on  its 
black  plinth  in  the  Naples  Museum.  If 
that  statue  could  move  like  a  faun,  that 
is  what  Mercury  should  be;  so  it  isnH 
easy  to  find  an  actor  to  play  him.  And 
his  voice  must  be  clear  and  sweet.  Not 
loud.  But  his  words  must  be  like  the 
telling  of  the   hours  —  as   befits  a   god. 


n  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

He  stands  there  in  his  glory.  But  Hip- 
ponax  still  tugs  at  the  bell  and  grumbles^ 
for  he  sees  nothing  but  empty  air. 

HIPPONAX.  [With  a  final  snap  and  pulL] 
Ferry ! !     Not  a  soul  about. 

ALICE.  He  can*t  see  Mercury  because  he 
doesn't  believe  in  him. 

[Then  comes  Charon  from  the  ferry  with  his 
long  pole.  He  is  but  a  half- god  and  so  can 
grow  old,  older  and  ever  old,  though  he 
may  never  die.  He  looks  at  Hipponax 
with  great  contempt, 

CHARON.    Another  of  these  philosophers! 

HIPPONAX.  I  have  rung  this  bell  I  don't 
know  how  many  times. 

CHARON.     I  heard  you. 

HIPPONAX.  You  heard  me.  [Then  he  swells.] 
Do  you  know  who  I  am?    Hipponax. 

CHARON.     Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?    Charon. 

HIPPONAX.     Charon ! 

[It  is  as  if  trees  and  rocks  had  begun  to  speak 
to  him.  His  breath  goes,  he  fishes  wildly 
for  his  book,  his  immortal  work  they 
called  it,  so  naturally  he  did  manage  to 
bring  one  copy  out  of  the  world  with  him. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  13 

There's  no  such  — !  [But  Charon  is  so  very 
real.]  Oh !  Well,  I'll  mention  it  in  a  foot- 
note. 

CHARON.  Stop  your  foolish  talk,  man,  and 
stand  up.     Don't  you  see  who  is  with  me? 

HIPPONAX.    There's  no  one  with  you. 

[Then  the  voice  of  the  god  is  heard.  Music  to 
us.  And  even  to  Hipponax,  now,  it  is  as 
if  the  air  round  him  were  gently  shaken. 

CHARON.    Take  care. 

MERCURY.     Charon,  the  two  obols. 

[Charonj    humbly   saluting,    takes   his  fee. 

CHARON.  If  you  can't  see,  can't  you  hear 
him? 

HIPPONAX.     I  heard  nothing. 

CHARON.  Give  him  your  mask  and  cloak 
to  hide  the  light  from  his  eyes  that  dazzles 
you. 

HIPPONAX.     Give  who  ? 

CHARON.     It's  Mercury,  the  Messenger. 

[Hipponax,  himself,  is  shaking  a  little  now. 
Charon  takes  from  him  his  mask  and  his 
ragged  philosopher's  cloak,  and,  sure 
enough,  as  they  hang  where  he  places  them 
they  seem  to  cover  a  human  shape. 


14  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

ALICE.     And  that's  the  beginning  of  Harle- 
quin's clothes. 

HIPPONAX.  Nonsense.  These  conjuring  tricks. 

There  are  no  gods.    I've  proved  there  are  no  .  .  . 

[Mercury  has  lifted  the  mask  and  at  sight 

of  that  radiance,  as  if  lightning  had  struck 

him,  Hipponax  falls  to  the  ground. 

CHARON.     Now  you've  blinded  him. 
MERCURY.     No  blinder  a  worm  than  he  was 
before  .  .  .  denying  the  sun.     What  are  you? 
HIPPONAX.     [Without  lifting  his  head.]     I  was 
once  ...  a  sort  of  philosopher. 

MERCURY.     Really  !  Row  him  across,  Charon  ; 
loose  him  among  the  shades  of  the  poets  and 
children,  and  in  pity  they  may  teach  him  to  see. 
CHARON.     Come  along. 

[He  handles   him  with  about   that  sort  of 

kindness  —  and    no    more    than    enough 

of  it  —  which  you  spend  on  a  mangy  cur. 

But  then  he  stops. 

What's  that  ?    Someone  swimming  my  Styx. 

On   the  bank  .  .  .  shaking  himself.     Momus, 

my  half-brother. 

[And  on  hounds  Momus.  He  is  the  comic 
man,  it's  easy  to  see.  Well,  gods  and 
godlings  must  he  made  to  laugh  sometimes. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  15 

and  since  life  is  simple  to  them^  they  laugh 
at  the  simplest  things.  Walking  is  rather 
serious.  So  Momus  never  walks;  he 
waddles  J  and  they  laugh  at  that.  It  is 
serious  to  stand  straight.  So  he  is  always 
knock-kneed  and  handy-legged,  and  they 
laugh  like  anything.  And,  as  they  never 
grow  old,  jokes  never  grow  old  to  them  and 
they  never  ask  for  new  ones.  So  this  is 
always  Momus^s  welcome  cry  when  he 
comes  to  make  them  laugh  .  .  . 

MOMUS.     Yes  .  .  .  here  we  are  again. 

CHARON.    And  in  a  nice  state. 

MOMUS.  Almost  almighty  Mercury,  take 
me  with  you.  I  know  why  Psyche  went  .  .  . 
she  was  as  bored  as  I  am.  I  can  help  you  find 
her.  For  if  she's  up  to  mischief,  I  shall  soon 
know  where  she  is. 

[Though  he  looks  very,  very  funny  as  he  pleads  ^ 
Mercury  shakes  his  head. 

Don't  go  thinking  because  you're  so  clever, 
you  can  do  better  without  a  fool  like  me. 
Saturday  afternoon  it  is.  If,  when  Jupiter 
starts  work  on  Monday,  there's  no  one  to  draw 
the  corks  of  the  bottled  lightning  .  .  .  look 
out  for  trouble.    Come  along,  too,  Charon. 


16  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

CHARON.      I? 

MOMUS.  Yes,  you're  growing  ever  so  dull. 
A  week  on  earth  will  do  you  good  ...  if  you're 
not  too  much  of  an  old  'un. 

CHARON.     I'm  not  an  old  'un. 

MOMUS.     You  are  an  old  'un. 

[And  when  a  thing  isn't  really  funny,  say 
it  twice  and  it  often  sounds  so,  Charon 
is  tempted. 

CHARON.     I  can't  leave  the  boat. 

HIPPONAX.  Oh,  take  me  back  to  earth  again. 
They'll  mock  at  me  on  the  other  side  of  this 
hellish  river  .  .  .  play  tricks  on  me  .  .  . 

MERCURY.  Charon,  give  him  your  oar.  He 
shall  mind  the  boat  till  Monday.  A  final  and 
a  wholesome  exercise  in  what  he  calls  his  philos- 
ophy, to  row  all  day  from  a  place  he  has  never 
understood  to  a  place  he  doesn't  believe  in. 

HIPPONAX.     I  can't  row. 

MOMUS.  You  don't  know  what  you  can  do 
till  you  try.  You'll  have  more  muscle  by 
Monday. 

CHARON.     Can  you  get  good  wine  below  ? 

MERCURY.     To  your  boat,  philosopher. 

[What  is  a  blind  man  to  question  the  voice  of 
a  god  ?    He  turns  to  the  hated  river,  tapping 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  17 

the  ground  with  his  pole.     Now  comes  a 
joke,  one  of  the  very  oldest. 

MOMUS.     One  moment. 

HiPPONAX.  [As  he  turns  hack,  hopeful  of 
respite.]    What  is  it  ? 

MOMUS.  How  far  would  you  have  got  if  I 
hadn't  called  you  back? 

[Mercury  hardly  smiles.  But  Charon  is 
abandoned  to  mirth.  He  slaps  his  old 
knees  with  his  hands. 

CHARON.     He's  a  funny  fellow. 
HIPPONAX.     Dull  clown ! 

[And  he  starts  again.  But  there's  another 
joke  he  must  he  part  of,  just  as  old  and  just 
as  silly. 

MOMUS.  No,  no!  Turn  to  the  right,  and 
to  the  right.  Still  to  the  right.  And  again  to 
the  right.     That's  right. 

[Round  and  round  went  Hipponax  until 
he  found  his  path  again.  Silly  .  .  .  and 
unkind?  Yes,  Nature  and  children  with 
their  parables  of  humour  sometimes  seem 
to  he  so  .  .  .  but  only  if  we  lose  all  touch 
with  them.  Then  the  voice  of  Mercury 
is  like  music  .  .  . 


18  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

MERCURY.  Come ;  earthwards  both  of  you. 
I  smell  the  spring  and  fields  and  flowers.  Is 
that  Pan  piping  ?  No,  a  bird's  song.  Such  little 
things  as  that  does  Psyche  love  and  seek.  On  we 
go. 

[Mercury  is  gone.  You  should  wonder  how, 
though  it  looks  mere  walking.  Charon 
is  walking  after,  so  tame  an  exit  that  it 
will  never  do. 
**Give  us  a  back,  old  'un''  says  Momus, 
and  leap-frogs  him.  Poor  old  hack,  it 
gives  way.  For  Momus  is  a  weight  in- 
deed. But  if  you  can't  laugh  at  your 
own  hurts,  what  can  you  laugh  at?  So 
Charon  totters  after,  chuckling  as  he  rubs 
his  bones. 
And  Uncle  Edward  and  Alice  draw  the  blue 
curtains.  Uncle  Edward's  eye  questions 
the  audience.  They  donH  so  often  applaud 
this  scene.  For  one  thing,  they're  still 
settling  down.  And  then,  applause  is 
not  the  only  sign  they're  liking  it,  nor  yet 
the  best.  But  you  can  tell  by  the  feel  of 
them.  Edward  can.  And  if  it's  a 
friendly,  happy,  a  sort  of  ''home  -y"  feel, 
why  then,  the  quieter  they  sit  the  better. 
But  Alice  only  thinks  of  how  the  actors 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  19 

do  J  and  she  is  never  too  pleased  with 
this  scene.  It's  never  beautiful  enough  to 
look  at.  ,  Mercury  {poor  dear!)  is  never 
really  like  a  god.  And  so  she  hurries  to 
the  next. 


LICE.  The  next  part  is  going  to  be 
all  in  dumb-show,  because  it's  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  and  that's  how 
they  used  to  play  things  in  the  fif- 
teenth century,  when  they  played  heaps  of  Har- 
lequinades .  .  .  and  Uncle  and  I  and  the  actors 
are  nothing  if  not  correct. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.    True. 

ALICE.  But  first  we  are  going  to  skip  an 
awful  lot,  all  the  part  about  the  Early  Ages, 
and  the  Middle  Ages  and  all  about  how  the 
gods  gradually  became  actors  ... 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     Better  tell  them. 

ALICE.  Well,  it's  rather  difficult  to  under- 
stand. But  you  know  if  you  stop  believing  in 
a  thing,  such  as  fairies,  or  that  you  like  choco- 
late, or  that  your  Uncle's  fond  of  you  .  .  .  after 
a  bit  it  somehow  isn't  there  any  longer.  That's 
what  nearly  happened  to  the  gods.  But  Mer- 
cury knew  that  if  people  won't  believe  a  thing 
when  you  say  it's  real,  they'll  just  as  good  as 

20 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  21 

believe  it  and  understand  it  a  great  deal  better 
when  it  only  seems  make-believe.  And  that's 
Art.  And  as  the  easiest  art  in  the  world  is  the 
art  of  acting  ...  I  hope  they  didn't  hear  [She 
wags  back  her  little  head  to  the  proscenium.]  .  .  . 
the  gods  became  actors. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  Now  you  get  back  to  the 
story.  It's  all  they  [He  wags  his  big  head  at  the 
audience.]  care  about. 

ALICE.  Yes.  Momus  helped  Mercury  find 
Psyche,  and  they  all  had  a  tremendous  time  and 
hoped  it  would  never  be  Monday.  For  every 
time  they  got  to  the  end  of  a  century  they 
wanted  to  stay  and  see  what  would  happen  in 
the  next.  Like  when  you  eat  nuts  it's  so  very 
difficult  to  stop  at  any  particular  nut,  isn't  it? 
Now  I  .  .  . 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  But  they  don't  want  to 
hear  about  you. 

ALICE.     Sorry. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  And  don't  gabble.  This 
ain't  the  metaphysics,  which  they  can't  abear. 
This  is  facts.     They  respect  facts. 

ALICE.  I  hate  facts.  They're  so  dull.  It 
was  when  they  became  actors  they  got  their 
new  names.  Harlequin  and  Columbine  and 
Clown  and  Pantaloon.     And   they  travelled 


^^  the  harlequinade 

from  Greece  into  Italy,  where  Charon  got 
called  Pantaloon  because  he  acted  an  old  gentle- 
man of  Venice,  and  Saint  Pantaleone  is  a  patron 
of  Venice,  and  there  were  heaps  of  people 
called  Pantaleone  there  in  the  fifteenth.  .  .  . 

\JJncle  Edward  is  snapping  his  fingers  and 
pointing  to  his  trousers.] 

Yes,  I  know.  Even  to-day  Pantaloon  is  still 
wearing  the  very  Venetian  clothes  of  the  time 
when  he  first  played  the  part.  He's  got  on 
the  first  pantaloons  ever  worn,  and  his  hair  is 
tied  in  a  lovelock.  Clown  and  Pantaloon  have 
got  white  faces.  By  this  time  funny  actors, 
who  acted  in  dumb-show,  used  to  put  flour 
on  their  faces,  like  Pierrot  you  know,  because 
the  theatres  were  so  dark  and  they  wanted  to 
show  their  expressions.  Then  there's  the  scene. 
I  do  hope  you'll  like  the  scene.  It's  supposed 
to  be  Italy,  and  I  think  it's  beautiful.  Any- 
how it's  the  kind  of  scene  we  have  to  have  so 
as  not  to  take  up  too  much  room.  And  it  has 
beehives  in  it.  Columbine  keeps  two,  one  for 
bees  and  one  for  butterflies. 

[//  is  part  of  Alice's  regret^  for  which  she 
keeps  a  nearly  secret  sigh,  that  we  couldn't 
have  real  bees  and  butterflies.    She  thinks 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  23 

it  would  he  so  jolly  to  see  the  bees  and 
butterflies  go  among  the  audience  and 
settle  on  the  buttonholes  and  sprays  they 
wear  and  bring  back  the  sense  of  gardens 
to  the  people  there. 

Uncle,  do  you  know  how  Clown  told  me  how 
to  tell  the  difference  ? 

UNCLE  EDWARD.    You  minx ! 

ALICE.  Put  your  hand  into  the  butterfly 
hive,  and  if  they  sting  you,  you  know  it*s  the 
bees. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  Did  he?  Well,  go  on  and 
tell  them  the  rest. 

ALICE.  Yes.  Columbine  has  run  away  again. 
The  story's  always  got  to  be  that.  Either 
Columbine  runs  away  from  somebody,  or 
somebody  runs  away  with  her.  That's  be- 
cause the  soul  is  always  struggling  to  be  free. 
This  time  Cousin  Clown  and  Uncle  Pantaloon 
helped  her.  She  could  twist  them  round  her 
little  finger.  And  she  made  a  great  mistake 
in  running  away  with  this  very  sham-serious 
young  man. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     Sham-serious  ? 

ALICE.  He  only  thinks  he's  serious  because 
he  reads  books  all  day  long.    And  she  married 


«4  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

him,  and  he's  turned  out  to  be  most  awfully 
dull.  And  I'm  most  awfully  sorry  for  her. 
He  treats  her  like  a  bit  of  furniture.  Isn't 
it  funny  the  way  the  soul  will  fall  in  love  .  .  . 
and  with  the  most  unaccountable  people ;  and 
you  know  how  you  say  **  I  can't  think  what 
she  sees  in  the  man.  ..."  But  a  god  can  see 
.  .  .  and  an  artist.  And  Harlequin's  a  bit  of 
both.  So  when  he  comes  along  .  .  .  Uncle, 
the  rest  of  it  isn't  a  very  nice  story.  Will  they 
mind? 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  They?  They'll  like  it 
all  the  better. 

ALICE.  Well,  you  see  the  husband  being  so 
dull,  she  wants  somebody  to  take  her  out  and 
show  her  things  and  be  attentive.  And  there's 
the  Man  of  the  World.  And  things  are  getting 
rather  serious.  For  Cousin  Clown  and  Uncle 
Pantaloon  aren't  any  use.  They're  just  stupid 
and  friendly  and  nice,  like  all  one's  country 
cousins.  But  just  in  time  comes  Harlequin- 
Mercury.  He  has  no  wings  left  to  his  feet, 
because  you  wear  off  wings  rather  soon  if  you 
wander  about  the  world.  And  his  wand  hasn't 
any  snakes  left.  It's  just  painted  white  wood. 
And  it's  a  good  thing  we've  come  to  the  jokes 
about  the    sausages,  because,  now  Harlequin's 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  25 

only  a  strolling  player,  he's  sometimes  awfully 
hungry. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  Very  true.  Are  they 
ready  ? 

ALICE,     ril  see. 

[So  she  turns  and  sticks  her  head  through  the 
curtains. 
Yes. 

UNCLE   EDWARD.      Music. 

[And  the  music  begins  again. 

Some  are  all  for  a  bell,  and  again  others  are 
for  a  gong,  but  .  .  . 

[He  wields  his  trusty  mallet  for  three  hard 
whacks  on  the  floor.  And  then  the  two 
of  them  draw  hack  the  curtains  on  the 
second  scene. 


LINE  of  dark  cypress  trees;  a 
blue  sky  and  an  Italian  landscape. 
A  path  to  a  house.  A  young  man 
lying  on  the  ground  reading.  His 
name  is  Gelsomino.  The  music  tells  him 
that  he  hears  Columbine.  He  stirs,  looks 
round,  frowns,  and  goes  back  to  his  book. 
Columbine  flies  out  of  the  house. 
ALICE.  [Radiant  and  proud.]  This  Is  Col- 
umbine. 

[And  what  should  Columbine  be  like?  Well, 
she  is  just  like  what  you'd  most  like  her 
to  be.  She  has  a  rose  in  her  hand. 
She  stops  as  she  sees  her  husband,  then 
shyly  puts  out  her  arms  to  him,  but  he 
cannot  see  that,  for  his  back  is  turned. 
She  creeps  up  to  him  and  drops  the  rose 
on  his  book.  He  brushes  the  rose  away 
and  waves  her  away    too. 

He\s  not  really  angry,  but  you  see  he*s  mar- 
ried to  her,  and  he  can't  bear  being  interrupted. 

26 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  27 

[Columbine  stands  looking  —  deliberately 
looking  her  prettiest;    wistful,  appealing, 

I  think  that^s  been  her  mistake.     If  she'd  .  .  . 

UNCLE  EDWARD.      Sh  ! 

ALICE.     Sorry ! 

[Mechanically  he  has  put  the  rose  in  the 
book  for  a  marker,  and  is  moving  away. 
But  now  we  see  —  or  if  we  don't  see,  we 
hear  in  the  music  —  the  Man  of  the 
World  on  his  way. 

The  Man  of  the  World.     I  told  you  ! 

[Such  a  man  of  the  world!  But  when  you 
can  dress  in  vermilion  and  purple  and 
gold  and  wear  the  biggest  cloak  and  the 
largest  sword  that  ever  was  and  twist  your 
moustache  as  outrageously  as  you  pleasSj 
what's  easier  than  to  fascinate  such  a 
child  as  Columbine?  She  curtseys  to 
him  as  he  bows  to  her.  She  beckons  to 
■  her  husband  to  join  them.  But  he,  lost 
now  in  the  landscape,  now  in  his  reopened 
book,  waves  only  a  distant  greeting,  and 
will  not  budge.  The  Man  of  the  World 
smiles  a  most  worldly  smile,  and  soon  he 
and  pretty  Columbine  are  strolling  towards 
the  house;  she  looking  down  at  the  flagged 


28  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

walk  and  the  flowers  that  border  it,  he 
looking  down  at  her^  with  eyes  too  greedy 
]  to  he  kind. 

What  a  pity,  isn't  it  ? 

[  [Then  the  music  tells  us  quite  unmistakably 
that  Pantaloon  and  Clown  are  tumbling 
along. 

Listen !  Pantaloon  and  Clown !  They  are 
always  coming  to  lunch.  Because  if  actors 
like  this  know  there  is  lunch  .  .  . 

UNCLE  EDWARD.      Hush  ! 

[And  on  they  tumble;  the  Pantaloon  and 
Clown  that  Children  know!  Clown  has 
a  basket  that  he  slyly  sets  down  and  Panta- 
loon Jails  over  it,  of  course.  Gelsomino 
joins  them,  willy-nilly;  for  they  fetch  him 
there,  because  Clown  has  a  joke  to  tell. 

ALICE.  This  is  the  beehive  and  butterfly- 
hive  story.  The  music  does  bees  and  butter- 
flies beautifully,  doesn't  it?  And  I  told  you 
the  joke  besides,  so  it's  quite  easy  to  follow. 
Gelsomino  never  sees  it.     He  is  dull. 

[Clown  does  sigh  deeply  over  Gelsomino's 
unmoved  face.  But  he  tries  again.  He 
takes  from  his  basket  the  entirely  impossible 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  29 

corpse  of  a  cat.    Pantaloon  chuckles  si- 
lently.   But  Alice  laughs  out  loud. 

Oh !  I'd  forgotten  that  one.  It's  one  of 
his  very  old  ones  .  .  .  but  I  like  it.  He  says 
.  .  .  "Somebody's  thrown  away  this  perfectly 
good  cat."  Gelsomino  doesn't  think  it  a  bit 
funny. 

[Gelsomino  doesn't.  He  sniffs  and  retires 
disgusted.  Clown  juggles  with  the  cat 
to  cheer  himself  up.  Then  he  flings  it 
recklessly  high  in  air  and  you  hear  it  fall 
{the  big  drum  does  this)  with  a  loud 
plomp  in  the  road. 

Back  stroll  Columbine  and  the  Man  of  the 
World.  But  she  is  looking  up  at  him 
now,  and  the  music  tells  us  that  her  heart 
is  beating  fast.  She  welcomes  Clown  and 
Pantaloon  with  a  kiss,  one  for  each. 
Clown  is  so  funny  when  he  is  kissed. 
And  she  makes  them  known  to  the  Man  of 
the  World.  Clown  is  so  funny  when  he 
bows.  He  can't  bow  all  he  wants  to  with- 
out knocking  Pantaloon  over.  Then  Col- 
umbine has  to  help  pick  him  up  and  com- 
fort him  and  kiss  him  again.  Then  there 
is  the  meal  to  be  prepared.     Off  they  run, 


30  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

all  three,  and  on  they  bring  it,  drhikableSj 
eatables,  table  and  chairs. 

Only  Gelsomino  sits  aside.  The  Man  oj 
the  World  goes  to  him  to  ask  what  book  so 
absorbs  him,  friendly,  faux  bonhomme. 
Gelsomino  responds  at  once.  Books  are 
important.  And,  as  he  lifts  his  up,  the 
rose  drops  out.  The  Man  of  the  World 
picks  it  up  and  —  ''May  he  keep  such  a 
trifle?''  ''By  all  means,''  nods  Gel- 
somino, wondering.  And  Columbine, 
there  with  the  dish  in  her  hands,  sees  it, 
and  —  there's  very  nearly  no  macarofii 
for  lunch. 

But  some  one  else  sees  it,  too  —  sees  it  and 
sees  all.  This  is  Harlequin,  who  has 
sprung  somehow  from  behind  the  trees. 

There's  Harlequin  .  .  .  with  his  wand  and 
his  mask.     He's  watching.     Now  you  watch. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  What  are  you  laughing  at  ? 
The  many  times  you've  seen  this ! 

ALICE.  I  never  can  help  it.  This  is  where 
Clown  tries  to  steal  the  breakfast,  and  he  never 
remembers  that  Harlequin's  close  behind. 

[And,  indeed,  while  the  others  most  ostenta- 
tiously don't  see,  Clown  and  Pantaloon  do 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  31 

steal  bread  and  sausages  and  beer  —  and 
into  the  basket  they  all  go.  Not  the 
beer;  that  goes  down  the  neck  of  Clown. 
Then  Columbine  calls  them  to  breakfast. 
Harlequin  is  presented  to  the  company. 
Gelsomino  has  greeted  him  even  more 
coldly. 

He  is  weary  of  her  relations. 

[Butj  behold,  they  discover  there  is  no  break- 
fast. Clown  discovers  it,  and  is  more 
amazed  and  innocent  than  any.  Colum- 
bine is  in  despair.  But  Harlequin  rises 
and  waves  his  wand  and  strikes  on  the 
table,  and  breakfast  appears.  Clown,  in 
a  panic,  turns  to  his  basket.  But,  behold, 
that  is  empty  now. 

Then  they  have  breakfast.  And  Clown  gets 
a  lot  and  Pantaloon  very  little.  Gel- 
somino hasn't  come  to  the  table  at  all,  so 
Columbine  goes  to  fetch  him.  But  he  isn't 
hungry,  he  won't  come.  And,  turning, 
disappointed,  she  sees  the  Man  of  the 
World  lifting,  not  his  glass  to  toast  her, 
but  the  rose.  Harlequin  sees,  too.  And 
he  rises  to  wave  his  wand  again.  Gel- 
somino starts  to  move  away. 


32  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

He's  getting  so  cross.  And  he  says  .  .  . 
*'  Do,  for  Heaven's  sake,  let  me  read  in  peace." 
You  know! 

[But,  with  a  flash  of  his  wand,  Harlequin 
strikes   the   hook. 

There !  He  has  magicked  the  book  all 
empty. 

[And,  sure  enough,  we  see  Gelsomino  turn  the 
empty  pages  in  despair.  It  is  the  sim- 
plest of  tricks.  Then  Harlequin  points  to 
where  the  Man  of  the  World  woos  Colum- 
bine with  those  eyes  of  his,  those  greedy 
eyes.    But  Gelsomino  will  not  see. 

He's  out  of  temper  now,  so  he  pretends  he 
doesn't  care. 

[Harlequin  points  to  the  rose  that  Gelsomino 
so  lightly  let  fall.  The  Man  of  the  World 
is  pressing  it  to  his  lips. 

He  points  to  the  rose  because  that's  a  — 
that's  a  .  .  . !    Oh,  what's  the  word.  Uncle  ? 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     Symbol. 

ALICE.  Thank  you  .  .  .  Symbol  of  Colum- 
bine's true  wifely  love  for  him.  And  what 
the  pointing  says  is :  Are  you  going  to  throw 
that  away,  too  ?    Don't  be  a  silly  fool ! 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  33 

[The  Man  of  the  World  is  taking  his  leave. 

The  rose  is  at  her  lips  now. 

And  what  h e  says  is  To-night  .  .  .  just 

like  that.     Only  I  can't  say  it.     Which  means 

he'll  come  back  to-night  and  carry  her  off 

and  love  her  ever  so.    And  he  might,  what's 

more,  if  it  wasn't  for  .  .  . !     But  you'll  see. 

[Suddenly  Gelsomino  goes  to  Columbine  and 

demands   the   rose,    imperiously,    with   a 

gesture  not  to  he  denied. 

That  means  he  says  he's  her  husband,  and 

can't  he  have  it  if  he  likes?    And  she  won't 

give  it  him  now.     And  she's  quite  right.     I 

wouldn't  either.    Nor  would  any  woman.  Look  ! 

[And  Columbine  has  torn  the  rose  in  pieces 

and  flung  them  on  the  ground,  and  flung 

herself  off.    And  then  Gelsomino  flings 

'  himself  down  in  self-reproachful  despair. 

But  all  this  flinging  shows  a  lover^s  quarrel, 

and  there's  life  and  hope  in  that.      But 

Alice  is  young  and  stern. 

Serve    him    right!    And    if    it    wasn't    for 
Harlequin.  .  .  . 

UNCLE  EDWARD.      Hush  ! 

[Harlequin     has     called     to     Clown     and 
Pantaloon.    And,  like  conspirators,  they 


34  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

stand    there    and    most    elaborately   they 

weave  a  plot.     It's  a  most  difficult  plot 

to  follow.     It  involves  a  dark  night  and 

tiptoes  and  a  signal  given.     It  involves, 

too,  a  cloak  and  a  skirt  and  a  bonnet  for 

Clown;  and  this  attracts  him  so  much  he 

can  attend  to  little  else. 

ALICE.    Do  you  guess  what's  going  to  happen  ? 

Uncle,  they've  forgotten  the  lights.     Oh,  this 

is  the  bit  I  love. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     [In  a  hoarsc  whisper.]    St ! 
George ! 

[Suddenly  on  the  little  stage  day  becomes 
night.     What  had  George  to  do  with  it  ? 
[In  a  hoarse  whisper  still.]     Bring  'em  round 
a  bit  .  .  .  the  number  two  steels. 

[And  the  moon,   obediently  turning,  floods 

the    little    stage.     Indeed    it    is    pretty. 

Uncle  Edward  can't  contain  himself.    And 

he  has  given  it  away  anyhow. 

Romantic,   isn't  it?    And  just    the    colour 

moonlight  ought  to  be. 

[The  music  tells  us  this  is  real  romance. 
Dark  figures  are  flitting  among  the  trees. 
Who  are  they?  Gelsomino,  Harlequin, 
Pantaloon.     The    Man    of    the    World, 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  35 

wrapped  dramatically  in  a  great  black 
cloak,  arrives.  ''Arrives''  is  poor.  He 
approaches.  Pantaloon  totters  down  to 
him.  ''Wait,  and  your  love  will  come.** 
He  waits  and  his  love  comes,  waddling  most 
amazingly  and  wrapped  in  the  tablecloth. 
We  are  sure  it's  Clown,  and  who  wouldn't 
be?  But  the  Man  of  the  World — for  a 
real  Man  of  the  World  —  is  strangely  de- 
ceived. He  kneels  to  her  adoringly;  he 
rises  and  would  embrace  her  passionately. 
ALICE.  "Love  of  my  life,"  he  says.  "Let 
us  away !" 

[Harlequin  waves  his  wand.  The  tablecloth 
has  gone.  It  is  Clown  indeed,  clownish 
and  undoubted. 

Yes,  it's  Clown,  it's  Clown,  it's  Clown ! 
And  Clown  says:  —  "Whither  away,  fair  sir?" 
And  the  Man  of  the  World  just  withers. 

[He  grinds  his  teeth,  does  the  Man  of  the 
World  {if  there  is  anything  in  the  orchestra 
that  will  do  it).  And  he  goes,  defeated, 
"Exit,  baffled,  the  Man  of  the  World." 

Alice  is  breathless. 

Harlequin  and  Gelsomino  are  alone  now,  and 
Harlequin  wraps  Gelsomino,  all  trembling 


S6  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

as  he  is,  in  the  cloak  which  the  Man  of  the 
World  dropped  there.  They  wait.  Then 
comes  poor  Columbine  creeping  in,  timid 
and  ashamed.  She  half-dreads  from  the 
stern  cloaked  figure.  She  turns  to  her 
home  to  kiss  her  hand  to  it.  But  Harle- 
quin with  his  wand  lures  her  forward. 
And  she  goes,  she  goes.  Then  the  wand 
is  waved  again,  and  the  cloak  is  off.  It 
is  her  husband;  and  she  shrinks,  this 
time  in  terror.  He  stands  like  a  stone. 
She  waits  for  a  blow — for  a  curse.  But 
suddenly  he  kneels  among  the  petals 
of  the  forgotten  rose.  Is  it  he  begging 
forgiveness  of  her  ?  She  has  no  thought 
for  that;  only  that  she  always  loved  him. 
She  bends  to  him,  he  takes  her  hands. 
He  rises  nnd  she  lifts  her  face.  Their 
lips  join. 
Alice  and  Uncle  Edward  draw  the  curtains. 

There !    That's  how  they  get  back  among 
the  gods. 


E  don't  travel  to  the  next  Scene  too 
quickly.  Alice  has  gone  hack  to  her 
little  chair  ^  and  there  she  sits  silent , 
her  chin  cupped  in  her  hand,  her  eyes 
dreamy.  Uncle  Edward  clears  his  throat 
noisily  several  times.  Then  he  puts  on 
his  spectacles  and  looks  at  her. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     Wool-gathering  ? 

ALICE.  I  love  a  love  story.  And  she's  such 
a  darling,  and  always,  all  through  the  ages, 
all  through  what  Clown  calls  the  longest  week- 
end on  record,  she  falls  in  love  and  falls  in  love 
.  .  .  and  falls  in  love. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  Come,  now,  it's  only  story- 
telling. Don't  let  it  get  on  your  mind.  Here, 
I  want  to  speak  to  you. 

[Alice  most  obediently  goes  over  to  him,  and 
he  whispers  to  her. 

ALICE.  [By  no  means  in  a  whisper.]  But 
perhaps  George  is  busy  with  the  next  scene. 

37 


S8  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     Never  you  mind. 

[Away  she  goes  and  through  the  curtains ^ 

leaving    Uncle  Edward  to  fill  his  pipe. 

But  she^s  back  almost  at  once  and  full  of 

smiles. 

UNCLE   EDWARD.     [Anxiously.]     Well,   what 

did  he  say  ? 

ALICE.     He  said  :  —  *  *- 1  was  thinking  of  having 
one  myself,  Miss  Whistler." 

[And  there  follows  her  through  the  curtains  a 

hand  and  arm  holding  a  foaming  pint  of 

beery  which  she  takes  across  to  her  Uncle. 

The  beer  goes  the  way  of  all  beer. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.    [After  wiping  his  mouth,  most 

politely  y  with  the  cheerfullest  looking  handkerchief 

you  ever  saw.]    On  the  warm  side.     Go  on  with 

your  bit. 

[Alice  takes  her  talking  place  again ,  feet 

together,  hands  behind  her.     Then  a  long 

breath. 

ALICE.     So  the  years  went  by.     And  they 

acted  in  Italy,  and  they  acted  in  France,  and 

they  acted  in  England.     Which  is  where  we've 

got  to  now,  in  about  seventeen  hundred  and 

something.     All  sorts  of  odd  people  got  added 

to  the  company,  and  dropped  out  again  on  the 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  39 

journeys.  In  France  they  found  Pierrot.  But, 
being  a  Frenchman,  he  hated  travelling ;  so 
they  left  him  there.  Nobody  knows  who  Pierrot 
was  ...  at  least  I  don't. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  My  dear,  if  we  start  on 
what  we  don't  know,  we'll  be  here  all  night 
.  .  .  and  the  next. 

ALICE.  I'll  skip  lots  then  ...  all  about 
Mr.  Rich  and  the  great  Harlequins.  People 
liked  them  better  than  Garrick !  And  now  we 
come  to  the  next  story.  It's  England,  and  it's 
London.  It's  about  Columbine  running  away. 
It  must  always  be  about  that.  The  hero  runs 
away  with  her.  Or,  strictly  speaking,  p'raps 
this  time  it's  her  that  runs  away  with  him. 

UNCLE  EDWARD,     Grammar. 

ALICE.  Her  ...  or  she  that  runs  away  with 
he  ...  or  him  !  She's  a  country  girl  come  to 
be  a  chambermaid  in  London.  A  singing  cham- 
bermaid, she  is  ;  they  had  them  in  the  old  plays, 
and  it  must  have  brightened  the  hotels  lots. 
And  she's  called  Richardson  for  short.  Harle- 
quin's a  valet  in  the  same  house.  And  why 
they're  servants  now  instead  of  actors  is  be- 
cause it  was  about  this  time  people  began  to 
think  that  Art  and  Religion  and  Love  were 
things  you  could  just  ring  the  bell  for,  and  up 


40  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

they  would  come  and  wait  on  you.  So  this  is 
another  sort  of  a  .  .  .  symbol.  And  the  gods 
have  lost  their  magic. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     [Much  alarmed.]    What  ? 

ALICE.  All  right,  Uncle  ;  it's  to  make  a  sur- 
prise. [And  then  to  reassure  the  audience,  who, 
bless  them,  aren't  alarmed  at  all.]  They  really 
haven't,  and  they  never  can.  They  may  lose 
their  magicky  magic;  for  the  world  grows  up 
like  we  do.  But  Harlequin  can  still  see  deep 
into  the  hearts  of  men,  and  Columbine's  so 
sweet  that  you  can't  help  loving  her  though  you 
don't  know  why.  And  that's  the  realest  magic 
of  all.     There ! 

Pantaloon's  the  hero's  lawyer  .  .  .  because 
when  you're  an  old  'un  you're  always  a  bit  of  a 
lawyer  .  .  .  you  can't  help  it.  And  Clown  is 
Charles,  his  friend,  a  country  squire,  come  up 
to  swagger  in  London  because  they  did.  The 
story's  the  same  story  really  ...  it  always 
is  .  .  .  just  twisted  about.  The  Italian  young 
man  was  buried  in  books,  which  was  bad  enough. 
But  this  young  man  is  so  drowned  deep  in  him- 
self .  .  .  which  is  worse  .  .  .  that  he's  almost 
nothing  but  clothes.  In  fact  he  has  so  dropped 
right  through  himself,  that  he  isn't  himself 
at  all.    There's  nothing  left  of  him  but  the 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  41 

reflection  in  his  mirror.  In  his  mirror !  Do 
remember  that  .  .  .  it's  important.  .  .  .  And 
Harlequin  has  to  make  a  man  of  him  .  .  . 
because  Harlequin  is  the  spirit  of  man  wanting 
to  come  to  Hfe.  It's  the  young  man's  wedding 
morning,  and  Harlequin-valet  —  is  putting  out 
his  wedding  suit.  There's  a  Woman  of  the 
World  this  time  instead  of  a  Man  of  the  World, 
who  is  going  to  marry  him  only  for  his  money. 
But  Columbine,  the  chambermaid  that  he  has 
never  even  noticed  .  .  . 

[Behind  the  closed  curtains  a  girVs  voice  is 
heard  singing  a  simple  country  song. 

There  !  they've  begun  .  .  .  because  I've  been 
so  long.  That's  her  song.  She  sings  as  she 
goes  through  the  rooms  a-dusting  them.  And 
when  she  sings,  little  wild  flowers  grow  up 
through  the  chinks  of  the  boards. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.     I  suppose  they  are  ready. 

[She  pokes  her  head  between  the  curtains. 
Uncle  Edward  has  really  melted  to  this 
last  touch.     He  is  wreathed  in  smiles. 
She's  a  wonderful  child.     Knows  the  whole 
thing  backwards.     Thinks  of  new  bits  for  her- 
self !     I  call  to  mind  her  mother  saying  .  .  . 
[Alice  has  turned  back. 


49  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

ALICE.     Ready  when  we've  counted  twenty. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.      Right. 

[Alice  counts:  you  can  see  her  lips  move. 
Uncle  Edward  hums  his  counting  as  an 
accompaniment  to  the  little  song. 


ND  so  we  have  got  to  the  Eighteenth 
Century,  And  we're  to  have  a  comedy 
of  manners  J  and  a  nice  study  oj 
clothes.  All  rather  shapely;  for  it 
contains  a  real  Beau,  and  the  only  valet 
who  was  ever  a  hero,  and  the  only  hero 
who  ever  had  Mercury  to  valet  him. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  dressing  up  in  this 
scene,  and  a  neat  ploy  of  dressing  downy 
and  a  man's  soul  comes  into  being  all  over 
an  affair  of  a  looking-glass.  Which  makes 
a  pretty  piece  of  work. 
Alice  knows  Hogarth  through  the  —  shall  we 
say  ?  —  nicer  prints,  and  Austin  D  oh  son 
through  the  daintiest  of  Ballads.  This 
scene  is  a  sort  of  mixture  to  her  of 
early  reading,  and  visits  with  her  Uncle 
to  the  National  Gallery,  and  old  hits  of 
China,  and  dumpy  little  leather -hound 
volumes  of  *'The  Spectator '\  the  real 
**  Spectator'',  which  she  can  just  remember 
on  the  fourth  shelf  from  the  top  near  the 
window. 

43  ^^ 


44  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

You  may  add,  for  your  own  personal  satis- 
faction, when  you  are  sitting  and  looking 
on,  all  that  tense  excitement  the  very  words 
"Eighteenth  Century''  awaken  in  the 
properly  balanced  mind.  Wigs  and 
coaches  and  polite  highwaymen,  and  lonely 
gibbets  on  still  more  lojiely  moors,  and  the 
Bath  road  with  its  chains  and  posts,  all 
come  into  the  background.  Pedlars  and 
cries  of  Pottles  of  Cherries,  Puppet  Show- 
men, and  Clowns  on  stilts  and  French 
water  gilders,  and  the  sound  of  swords 
early  in  the  morning  in  Leicester  Fields: 
the  touch  of  them  all  should  be  there. 
And  also  St.  James's  Street  crammed 
with  sedan  chairs,  and  black  pages  with 
parrots,  and  the  rattle  of  dice  at  White's 
or  Almack's,  and  the  hurrying  feet  of  the 
Duke  of  Queensberry' s  running  footmen. 
Such  romantic  dreams  should  come  to 
you.  Sliding  panels  and  gentlemen  driv- 
ing heiresses  to  Gretna  Green,  and  secret 
meeting  places,  and  Fleet  marriages  and 
the  scent  of  lavender,  musk,  and  ber- 
gamot  I 

But  the  song  is  nearly  over  and  the  curtains 
are  drawn  back. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  45 

The  room  might  he  a  background  to  a  picture 
by  Zoffany,  dim  and  mellow  and  empty. 
There  is  a  door  leading  to  the  passage^ 
another  that  must  lead  to  the  Beau's  bed- 
room. There  is  a  fireplace  with  a  fire 
burning.  A  portrait  of  the  Woman  of 
the  World  is  over  the  fireplace.  There  is 
a  dressing-table  by  the  fireplace,  with  a 
tall  wig  stand  and  a  big  arm-chair  by 
it.  There  is  a  bureau  with  writing  ma- 
terials. There  are  cupboards  in  the  wall 
full  of  clothes  and  stockings  and  shoes. 
The  bedroom  door  is  open. 

Harlequin -Valet  stands  listening  until  the 
sound  of  the  song  dies  away.  He  has  a 
clothes^  brush  in  his  hand.  Then  he 
places  the  clothes  he  has  been  brushing  on 
the  Beauts  chair  in  a  ridiculous  sem- 
blance of  a  man.  He  adds  a  wig  to  the 
wig  stand  which  is  behind  it,  puts  a  patch 
on  the  wig  block;  a  cane  to  one  sleeve,  a 
snuff-box  to  the  other ;  puts  shoes  to  their 
place,  so  that  the  stockings  dangle  into 
them,  and  then  stands  back  to  admire  his 
work.     He  bows  low. 

Columbine  dances  on  with  a  feather  brush 
in  her  hand.    He  takes  her  to  the  clothes^ 


46  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

and  presents  her  to  them  with  every  formal' 
ity.     She  curtseys. 

ALICE.  You  see,  she's  a  new  maid,  and  he's 
pretending  that  that's  her  master.  Lord  Eg- 
lantine .  .  .  Betty  Richardson !  It's  rather 
wicked  of  them. 

[Harlequin  waves  his  clothes^  brush,  and  the 
wig  stand  bows  back.  He  waves  it  again, 
and  all  the  clothes  tumble  together  in  a 
j  heap. 

One  hears  the  front  door  bang.  Harlequin 
waves  Columbine  into  the  bedroom,  sweeps 
the  clothes  together  into  a  neat  pile  and 
stands  waiting  by  the  door.  There  enters 
Lord  Eglantine,  the  Beau.  A  trifle  pale, 
disordered,  calm.  He  has  been  gambling 
all  night.  To  the  rhythm  of  a  minuet 
Harlequin  takes  his  cloak,  hat,  and  cane, 
takes  off  his  coat  and  gets  him  into  a 
gorgeous  dressing-gown,  and  so  into  his 
chair.  And  there  he  sits  looking  for  all 
the  world  like  the  bundle  of  clothes  come 
to  life. 

In  the  next  room  Columbine  begins  to  sing 
again,  and  Lord  Eglantine  leans  forward 
to  listen. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  47 

EGLANTINE.  Maunds  of  cowslips,  honey  bags 
of  bees  !    Whose  voice  is  that  ? 

HARLEQUIN.  Ten  thousand  pardons,  my  lord, 
it  is  the  chambermaid. 

EGLANTINE.     She  has  a  name  ? 

HARLEQUIN.     Richardson,  my  lord. 

EGLANTINE.  Richardson.  Are  there  people 
called  Richardson  ?     Interesting  ! 

HARLEQUIN.  I  will  stop  her,  my  lord.  We 
did  not  expect  your  lordship  to  return  so 
soon. 

EGLANTINE.  No.  A  woman  singing  ...  in 
my  bedroom.  Dusting  yesterday's  cares  away 
to  make  room  for  the  cares  of  to-morrow.  Put 
that  down.  I  may  want  to  say  it  again.  What 
is  she  singing?    You  know  everything. 

HARLEQUIN.     A  Country  song,  my  lord. 

EGLANTINE.  Is  the  coun try  like  that  ?  Hand- 
kerchief. 

[The  word  has  hardly  left  his  lips  before  the 
handkerchiefs  neatly  unfolded,  is  in  his 
hand.     What  a  valet! 

She  has  stopped.  Put  the  door  ajar  so  that 
I  see  her. 

[Harlequin  looks  at  the  door.  It  opens  and 
stands  obediently  ajar. 


48  THE   HARLEQUINADE 

A  picture  of  innocence.  Putting  her  hair 
tidy  before  my  mirror.  She  is  like  a  .  .  . 
.  .  .  [He  has  almost  forgotten  those  little  things 
that  grow  so  prettily.]  .  .  .  when  I  was  a  boy 
they  grew  in  the  garden. 

HARLEQUIN.     Flower,  my  lord  ? 

EGLANTINE.  I  must  give  her  a  guinea. 
Give  me  a  guinea.     Send  her  to  me. 

HARLEQUIN.     Certainly,    my    lord. 

[He  beckons  to  Columbine,  and  she  dances 
on, 

EGLANTINE.     So  you  are  a  chambermaid? 

[Richardson  curtseys.  That's  a  poor  way  to 
describe  it.  It  is  a  bob  rustic  indeed,  but 
it  veils  Columbine  very  slightly.  She  is 
like  one  of  the  flowers  of  Keats,  ''all  tiptoe 
for  a  flight.' '  Into  the  room  with  the  arch- 
valet  and  the  very  tired,  elegant  modish 
man  she  has  come  like  the  scent  of  mignon- 
ette through  the  window.  His  lordship's 
mind  stirs  even  under  its  counterpane  of 
cards  and  dice  and  buttered  claret  and 
snuff  and  fripperies,  and  one  might 
think  he  heard  the  echo  of  a  thrush's  song 
sung  when  he  was  a  boy  {Unbelievable 
thought),  and  climbed  trees. 


[THE  HARLEQUINADE  49 

And  where  do  you  come  from  ? 
HARLEQUIN.     The  country,  my  lord. 
EGLANTINE.     I   lived   in   the   country   once. 
There  used  to  be  things  one  picked  in  the  hedges 

[He  has  forgotten  those,  too. 

HARLEQUIN.     Blackberries?  ' 
EGLANTINE.     I  don't  think  they  were  called 
blackberries.     Things  with  a  rough  husky  scent. 

[Columbine's  lips  make  a  pretty  pout.     In  an- 
other moment  we  should  hear  Prim  —  ... 

The  girl  has  it.  Primroses.  One  forgets. 
One  lives  to  learn  to  forget.  [He  likes  the 
sound  of  that.  It  fits  the  sense.  It  is  almost  an 
epigram.]  A  guinea,  child,  for  the  song.  Sing 
at  your  work.     I  like  to  hear  you. 

[She  floats  away.    Eglantine  has  turned  to 
his  mirror. 

Fifteen  thousand  pounds  lost  and  not  another 
wrinkle.  Sir  Jeffrey  Rake  had  it  of  me  last 
night.  They  keep  those  rooms  so  hot.  Quin, 
am  I  pale? 

HARLEQUIN.     Perhaps  a  little,  my  lord. 

[From  nowhere  in  particular  Quin  (Harle- 
Quin,   you   notice)    produces   the  Beau's 


50  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

morning  chocolate^  which  Eglantine  sips 
daintily. 

EGLANTINE.    What  do  I  do  to-day  ? 

HARLEQUIN.  At  eight  o'clock  comes  Mr. 
Talon. 

EGLANTINE.  A  plaguy  fellow,  my  attorney ! 
And  I  have  not  slept  a  wink.  What  does  he 
want  with  us  ? 

HARLEQUIN.  Among  other  things  your  lord- 
ship's signature  to  the  marriage  settlement. 

EGLANTINE.     Whose  marriage  settlement  ? 

HARLEQUIN.  At  ten  o'clock  your  lordship 
is  to  be  married. 

EGLANTINE.  So  I  am !  Heel-taps  and  Hy- 
men's torches !  so  I  am !  Wonderful  fel- 
low, you  remember  everything !  But  death 
of  my  waistcoats!  Have  I  but  two  hours  to 
dress  in?  Not  more.  Begin  on  me  .  .  . 
begin. 

HARLEQUIN.     Pardon,  my  lord,  the  bell. 

EGLANTINE.  That's  the  man  of  law.  Show 
him  in.  You  can  bring  water  in  here  .  .  .  my 
turban  .  .  .  pantoufles. 

[The  door  opens  and  in  totters  Pantaloon, 
You  know  him  for  Pantaloon^  as  you  knew 
him  as  Pantaloon  for  Charon^  for  all  he's 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  51 

Mr.  Talon  with  his  tie  wig,  his  spectacles, 
and  his  lawyer's  blue  bag. 

HARLEQUIN.  His  lordship  will  receive  you, 
Mr.  Talon. 

PANTALOON.  To  celebrate  your  master^s  wed- 
ding day  .  .  .  two  crowns. 

HARLEQUIN.     I  am  obleeged,  sir. 

[Quin  takes  the  proffered  money  and  salutes 
in  thanks.  But  —  it's  odd  —  the  salute 
is  as  when  Charon  saluted  Mercury. 

ALICE.  D'you  see  ...  in  a  dim  sort  of  way 
they  remember  themselves  and  Olympus. 

EGLANTINE.  Mr.  Talon,  'pon  me  honour, 
as  punctual  as  a  creditor.  Port?  Madeira 
or  Port,  Mr.  Talon?  Quin,  Mr.  Talon  will 
drink  Madeira. 

[Quin  pours  out  the  Madeira.  Quin  takes 
his  master's  wig,  beturbans  him,  brings 
rose-water  for  his  hands,  cosmetics  for 
his  face.  Quin  is  everywhere.  Quin  does 
everything.     It  is  magical. 

Mr.  Talon,  you  look  black  at  me. 

[Mr.  Talon,  seated,  warmed  with  his  wine, 
takes  many  red-taped  papers  from  his 
bag  and  a  quill  from  a  case. 


52  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

PANTALOON.     A  goose  quill. 

EGLANTINE.     One  of  your  own  plucking  ? 

PANTALOON.  Often  too  appropriate  for  the 
signing  of  such  documents. 

EGLANTINE.  This  the  settlement?  Small 
house  .  .  .  strip  of  woodland  .  .  .  rentals  of 
farm  .  .  .  two  hundred  a  year !     Is  that  all  ? 

PANTALOON.  It  is  all  there  is  left  to  settle, 
my  lord  ;  all  that  is  left  to  you  of  your  estate. 

EGLANTINE.  The  Lady  Clarissa  may  well 
complain. 

PANTALOON.  But  if  you  had  not  pledged  your- 
self to  pay  her  debts  besides  you  would  be  still 
twelve  thousand  five  hundred  pounds  the  richer. 

EGLANTINE.     True ! 

PANTALOON.  And  I  must  warn  your  lord- 
ship that  all  this  done,  if  it's  to  be  done,  you 
will  have  left  to  you  a  mere  fifteen  thousand 
pounds  in  stocks.  That,  and  no  more  in  the 
world. 

EGLANTINE.     Fifteen  ? 

PANTALOON.     Exactly. 

EGLANTINE.  How  lucky.  The  very  sum 
I  lost  last  night  to  Sir  Jeffrey  Rake.  Had  it 
been  more  how  could  I  have  paid  him?  Had 
it  been  less  we  should  have  been  troubled  with 
the  change. 


THE   HARLEQUINADE  53 

PANTALOON.     My  lord,  my  lord  ! 
EGLANTINE.     You  seem  distressed.     Quin,  a 
glass  of  wine  for  Mr.  Talon  to  restore  him. 

[In  a  flash  Quin  has  re-filled  his  glass  with 
wine. 

PANTALOON.     You  are  ruined! 

EGLANTINE.  So  it  seems.  Rose-water  for 
my  hands,  Quin. 

PANTALOON.  This  is  Sir  Jeffrey  Rake's  re- 
venge. It's  said  that  he  has  wooed  Lady 
Clarissa  while  you  won  her  from  him. 

EGLANTINE.  At  fifteen  thousand !  Cheap, 
then,  you'll  admit  at  the  price. 

PANTALOON.  A  cheap  lady,  no  doubt,  my 
lord,  at  any  price. 

EGLANTINE.     You  Icnow  her  ? 

PANTALOON.     Her  reputation  only. 

EGLANTINE.  There's  her  portrait  behind  me. 
I  can't  turn  my  head.  Quin,  bring  me  my 
mirror. 

[Mr.  Talon  studies  the  brilliant  lady  rather 
doubtfully. 

PANTALOON.     I  trust  she  loves  your  lordship  ? 

EGLANTINE.  Gad's  life !  I  never  asked  her. 
A  monstrous  unfair  thing  to  ask  of  any  woman 
of  the  world. 


54  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

PANTALOON.  Doubtless  she  is  grateful  for 
the  sacrifice  you  make. 

EGLANTINE.      I  hope  not. 

[Quin  now  has  the  mirror  placed  so  that 
Eglantine  can  view  his  bride-to-be.  It 
reflects  other  matters  of  importance,  too. 

Ah  ...  is  that  the  new  wig  on  the  block  ? 
Vastly  good !  Quin  here,  Mr.  Talon,  has  a 
magical  touch  at  dressing  a  head.  Gad,  but 
the  wig  block  looks  as  lively  as  I  do.  The 
mirror  reflects  her  ladyship's  portrait  very 
well. 

PANTALOON.     You  love  her,  my  lord  ? 

[At  this  moment  and  at  that  word  Harle- 
quin waves  his  wand  —  it  is  a  comb  as 
it  happens  —  aTid  next  we  hear  Columbine 
begin  again  to  sing. 

EGLANTINE.  Love,  Mr.  Talon,  is  a  most 
unmodish  thing.  It  may  be  called  .  .  . !  That 
girl  is  singing  again  ! 

HARLEQUIN.  She  knows  no  better,  my  lord. 
Shall  I  stop  her  ?  u 

EGLANTINE.  No.  But  hand  me  my  epi- 
grams upon  love.  They  slip  my  memory. 
It's  a  pretty  song.  [The  tablets  are  before  him. 
He  glances  over  them.]    Now,  let's  see.    Love 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  55 

is  a  .  .  .  [But  he  is  caught  by  the  song.]  Art- 
less as  a  bird !  Love  .  .  .  [That  fine  epigram 
seems  out  of  place  beside  the  song.]  When 
a  woman  loves  you,  she  .  .  .  [But  while  that 
girl  is  singing,  he  simply  cannot  read  the  foolish 
words.]  That  might  be  the  oldest  song  in  the 
world ! 

HARLEQUIN.     It  is,  my  lord. 

EGLANTINE.  [Gives  back  the  tablets  with  the 
wryest  smile.]  Take  them,  put  them  in  the  fire. 
As  epigrams  well  enough,  Mr.  Talon ;  but  per- 
haps the  simple  truth  is,  that  I  do  not  love  her 
ladyship. 

[And  the  song  ceases. 

HARLEQUIN.  Pardon  me,  my  lord ;  once 
more  the  bell ! 

[Quin  disappears  to  answer  it. 

EGLANTINE.  Gad,  no  more  delays,  or  my 
bride  will  be  kept  waiting  at  the  Church. 

PANTALOON.  Listen  to  me,  my  lord.  Pay 
these  debts  of  hers  in  full,  make  this  settlement 
as  you  intend,  and  you  are  a  pauper. 

EGLANTINE.  But  yet  a  gentleman  who  has 
given  his  word  and  not  broken  it. 

PANTALOON.  You  will  at  least  allow  me  to 
postpone  the  payment  of  the  debts  till  you  are 


56  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

safely  married.  Caution's  our  lawyer's  trade 
mark.  Her  ladyship  might  die,  might  change 
her  mind  at  the  very  altar  I 

EGLANTINE.  I  will  not  allow  you  to  cast  a 
doubt  either  on  her  perfect  health  or  her  per- 
fect honour  .  .  .  nor  let  the  shadow  of  one  rest 
on  mine. 

PANTALOON.  But,  my  lord,  why  has  she 
begged  you  keep  your  marrying  secret  till 
to-day  ? 

EGLANTINE.  Perhaps  she  is  not  very  proud 
of  me,  my  dear  Talon.     It  is  possible. 

[Harlequin  flashes  through  the  doorway  and 
announces  .  .  . 

HARLEQUIN.     Sir  Gcorge  Rustic. 

[//  is  Momus.    Devil  a  doubt  it  is  also  our 
old  friend,  Clown. 

EGLANTINE.  Welcome,  my  dear  George,  so 
soon  again.     We  didn't  part  till  six. 

CLOWN.  Damned  if  we  did.  A  rake-helly 
place  is  London  to  be  sure,  but  after  Somerset 
...  I  tell  'ee,  I  likes  it.  I  been  home  since, 
washed  hands  and  face !  No ;  washed  hands 
.  .  .  not  face.  Then  to  White's  for  my  choc- 
olate, and  picked  up  the  latest  smack  of  gossip 
.  ,  .  the  best  there's  been  in  weeks  .  .  .  good 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  57 

enough  to  come  along  and  tell  'ee.  So  here  we 
be  again. 

EGLANTINE.  My  attorney,  Mr.  Joseph 
Talon. 

CLOWN.     Han*t  we  met  somewhere  before? 

PANTALOON.  It  is  possible,  sir,  but  it  must 
be  a  while  ago. 

CLOWN.  I  seem  to  know  *ee.  I've  got  an 
uncle  called  Joey. 

ALICE.  You  see  they  always  nearly 
remember. 

CLOWN.  No  pleasant  business  a-doing  by 
the  looks  of  you.  I  guess  it,  and  don't  wonder. 
What  was  your  joke  as  we  started  the  cards? 
Man  who  sits  to  gamble  at  night  had  better 
have  called  his  attorney  betimes  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

EGLANTINE.  Ah,  well  remembered.  Pray 
redeem,  Mr.  Talon,  as  soon  as  may  be,  my  note 
of  hand  for  fifteen  thousand  from  Sir  Jeffrey 
Rake's  steward. 

PANTALOON.     My  lord. 

CLOWN.  And  it's  him  that  this  bit  of  gossip's 
about  that  I've  come  to  tell  'ee.  Dang  it,  the 
best  that  ever  you  heard.     You  must  know  .  .  . 

EGLANTINE.  George,  we  detain  Mr.  Talon, 
who  has  business  to  do  and  no  care  for  gossip. 


58  THE   HARLEQUINADE 

PANTALOON.  Oh,  believe  me,  my  lord,  for 
an  old  'un  .  .  . 

CLOWN.  So  we  do  believe  you,  Mr.  Joseph 
.  .  .  sprier  than  many  an  old  'un,  I'm  sure. 

EGLANTINE.     A  parting  glass  of  wine  to  cheer 
you.     George,  help  Mr.  Talon  and  yourself. 
[Harlequin  waves  his  wand  —  a  napkin  it 
is  this  time  —  and  the  glasses  are  filled. 

CLOWN.     Your  health,  Mr.  Talon. 

PANTALOON.  Yours,  Sir  George.  Long  life 
to  you,  my  lord. 

EGLANTINE.      Life  ! 

[Pat  on  that  word  —  that  most  commanding 
word  —  Columbine's  song  breaks  forth 
again.    And  this  time  loud  and  clear. 

Ah,  stop  that  singing,  it  hurts  me.  Dismiss 
the  girl !  Pack  her  out  of  the  house !  I  can't 
bear  it. 

HARLEQUIN.     Very  good,  my  lord. 
[He  waves  his  wand  and  the  song  stops. 

CLOWN.     Another  glass,  Mr.  Joseph. 

PANTALOON.     I  thank  you.  Sir  George. 

CLOWN.  While  I  tell  you  my  story.  For  it's 
the  best  story  .  .  . ! 

PANTALOON.  One  moment.  In  this  glass 
may  we  drink  to  the  bride  ? 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  59 

CLOWN.     Yes,  and  it's  about  a  bride. 

PANTALOON.  With  his  lordship's  permission. 
.  .  .     "The  bride!" 

CLOWN.  The  bride?  Whose  bride?  I 
mean,  whose  bride  is  this  ? 

PANTALOON.     His  lordship's. 

CLOWN.  Yours,  Eglantine?  Well,  by  the 
clocks  on  my  stockings  ! 

PANTALOON.     It  has  been  kept  a  secret. 

EGLANTINE.  You  Icavc  this  deed  of  settle- 
ment with  me  ? 

PANTALOON.  To  hand  to  her  ladyship  when 
the  ceremony  ends. 

EGLANTINE.  What's  this  little  farm  like 
with  its  two  hundred  a  year  ?    Where  is  it  ? 

[Mr.  Talon  doesn't  know,  it  seems.     Then, 
it  is  Harlequin  who  speaks. 

HARLEQUIN.  If  your  lordship  pleases,  it 
happens  very  strangely  to  be  the  place  where 
Richardson,  our  singing  chambermaid,  was 
born ;  where  she  lived  till  I  brought  her  liere. 

EGLANTINE.     Her  home  ? 

HARLEQUIN.     Her  home,  my  lord. 

EGLANTINE.     I  must  keep  this  safe,  Quin. 

[Quite    tenderly  —  though    why  ?  —  he  lays 
the  parchment  by  his  side. 


60  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

CLOWN.  Damme,  I  want  another  glass  to 
pull  me  over  the  shock,  old  Talon. 

PANTALOON.  An  excellent  wine.  It  reminds 
me  of  the  time  .  .  . 

EGLANTINE.  [Watch  in  hand.]  Let  it  remind 
us  all  of  the  time.  Mr.  Talon,  Lady  Clarissa^s 
lawyers  expect  you  at  nine  with  the  bonds  for 
twelve  thousand  five  hundred  pounds.  Don't 
let  me  detain  you. 

CLOWN.  Lady  Clarissa !  But  that's  the  very 
name  .  .  . 

EGLANTINE.  Stay,  George,  and  bring  me 
to  the  church  and  tell  me  your  story  on  the 
way.  You'll  pardon  me,  my  wedding  suit 
awaits  me. 

[He  goes  out.  Be-wigged,  rouged,  he-pow- 
der ed,  his  dressing-gown  gathered  about 
him;  like  a  splendid  vision  he  fades  into 
his  bedroom. 

PANTALOON.      I  mUSt  gO. 

CLOWN.  No,  not  without  a  final  glass. 
We've  settled  the  Madeira,  but  there's  still 
the  Port. 

[Harlequin  waves  a  powder  puff.  And  the 
empty  decanter  is  full  and  the  full  one 
empty. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  61 

PANTALOON.     No,    no,    Sir    George,    we've 
settled  the  Port,  but  there's  still  the  Madeira. 

[Harlequin  waves.  And  the  empty  is  empty 
again.     But  the  full  one  is  empty,  too. 

CLOWN.     Oh,  Joey,  Joey,  we've  settled  them 
both. 

[There  they  stand,  all  three,  grouped  as  we 
know  them  so  well. 

ALICE.     Look,  oh,  look !    There's  the  Harle- 
quinade ! 

PANTALOON.      I  mUSt  gO. 

[And  he  goes. 
EGLANTINE.     [From  within.]     Quin ! 
HARLEQUIN.     My  lord. 

[And  he  vanishes. 
EGLANTINE.    And  now  for  your  story,  George, 
if  while  I  dress,  it  will  carry  through  a  door. 

[The  scene  you  cannot  see  is,  of  course,  of 
tremendous  importance.  A  Beau  dress- 
ing for  his  wedding  I  It  couldn't  he  done 
upon  the  stage  because  no  audience  roughly 
coming  in  from  their  dinner  ridiculously 
dressed  in  black  clawhammer  coats  could 
appreciate  the  niceties  of  the  toilette  of  a 
Beau,  so  far,  so  very  far  removed  from  the 


ee  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

uncultured  vulgarities  of  the  Nut.  They 
say  that  even  the  very  silk-worms  who  span 
to  make  him  silk  for  his  coats  are  set  aside 
from  the  silk-worms  who  spin  silk  for  per- 
sons of  grosser  habit.  And  every  flower 
embroidered  on  his  coat  is  perfumed  with 
its  proper  scent.  And  a  girl  has  gone 
blind  through  making  the  filmy  froth 
of  lace  about  his  throat. 

CLOWN.  It's  carrying  round  London  by 
this  time.     You  know  Sir  Jeffrey  Rake  ? 

EGLANTINE.      I  think  SO. 

CLOWN.  Yes,  don't  you.  You  lost  enough 
to  him  last  night. 

EGLANTINE.      I  did. 

CLOWN.  He*s  been  this  year  past,  it  seems, 
sweethearting  .  .  .  and  a  bit  more  .  .  .  with  a 
famous  lady  of  fashion  here  in  town.  But  he'd 
not  a  penny,  and  she'd  ten  thousand  pounds 
of  debts.  So  marry  they  couldn't  till  she  hit 
on  a  plan. 

EGLANTINE.     Indeed  ? 

CLOWN.  A  fine  lady's  plan.  She  was  to 
cozen  some  wealthy  fop  and  swear  to  marry 
him  if  he'd  pay  those  debts  of  hers.  D'you 
mark  that  ? 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  63 

EGLANTINE.     I  mark  it. 

CLOWN.  There's  more  to  come.  The  night 
before  the  wedding  was  to  be  .  .  .  last  night  as 
ever  was  ...  if  Sir  Jeffrey  didn't  win  at  cards 
a  cool  fifteen  thousand  from  the  same  poor 
fool.  And  this  very  morning,  off  have  the 
precious  couple  gone !  Married  by  this,  begad 
they  are;  he  with  his  pockets  lined,  she  free 
of  her  Jews.  It'll  be  all  over  town  in  an  hour. 
And  the  fool  fop  is  dressing  for  his  wedding! 
Now  did  ever  you  hear  the  like  of  that  ? 

[There  is  silence  in  the  other  room. 

I  say,  did  ever  you  hear  the  like  of  that? 
Is  your  master  there,  Quin  ? 

HARLEQUIN.  [Who  is  passing  in  and  out.] 
To  some  extent  he  is,  Sir  George. 

CLOWN.  Gad,  let  me  think  a  minute  .  .  . 
though  the  wine's  in  my  head.  What  sum  did 
you  lose  to  Sir  Jeffrey  last  night  ?  Your  bride's 
name  was  Clarissa.  ...  I  heard  it.  And 
Clarissa  Mordaunt's  the  name  of  that  fine 
lady.  Odds,  Bobs  and  Buttons!  You're  not 
the  fool  fop.  Eglantine,  are  you  ? 

[Is  it  Eglantine  who  enters?  There  stands 
something  for  a  moment  like  a  dead  thing 
dressed  in  a  bridegroom's  splendour.    It 


64  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

is  as  if  some  ice-cold  hand  had  plucked 
at  his  heart.  Yet  he  is  calm;  the  poise 
remains  true,  the  subtle  artifice  is  there. 
But  the  crushing  blow  to  his  pride  is  in 
his  pale  face,  and  his  voice  rings  bitterly 
when  he  says : 

EGLANTINE.      I  was. 

CLOWN.  I'm  sorry.  I  might  have  guessed. 
I  mean,  of  course  I  couldn't  have  guessed  .  .  . 
that  any  man  would  be  such  a  fool  ...  I 
mean  .  .  oh,  gad,  I  .  .  . 

ALICE.  He  never  opens  his  mouth  but  he  puts 
his  foot  in  it.     That's  what  he's  trying  to  say. 

CLOWN.  But  there's  time  yet.  Old  Talon 
can't  have  paid  the  money  to  her  lawyers  by 
this.  Jeffrey  Rake  boasted  too  soon.  I'll 
run  to  stop  it. 

EGLANTINE.  Pray,  do  nothing  of  the  sort, 
George. 

CLOWN.  But  I  will.  An't  I  your  friend? 
What's  the  address  ? 

EGLANTINE.     My  pistol,  Quin. 

[The  pistol  is  in  his  hand. 

CLOWN.  And  the  fifteen  thousand  Rake 
won.  Hold  it  back.  We'll  call  him  out  and 
do  for  him  .  .  .  one  of  us. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  65 

EGLANTINE.  Must  I  go  SO  far  as  to  shoot 
you  in  the  leg,  my  dear  George,  to  convince  you 
that  it  will  be  an  errand  ill  run  .  .  .  that  they 
are  welcome  to  their  gains  .  .  .  that  I  count 
myself  well  rid  of  them. 

CLOWN.  Oh !  You  don't  count  on  my  not 
telling  the  story,  do  you  ? 

EGLANTINE.  Though  I  shot  you  as  dead 
as  mutton,  every  joint  would  squeak  it,  I  feel 
sure. 

CLOWN.    Oh ! 

EGLANTINE.     Quin ;  the  door.  ^ 

CLOWN.    Oh !  ^ 

[Still  he  stands,  grinning  there. 

EGLANTINE.  George,  we  are  keeping  my 
servant  in  a  draught. 

[Clown   waddles   out.     Harlequin   vanishes 
too.    He  is  hack  in  a  moment  to  find 
Eglantine  sunk  in  the  chair  facing   the 
mirror  to  see — finery!    And  what  else? 
Quin.     In  the  glass  there  ...  is  that  Eglan- 
tine? 

HARLEQUIN.  Till  this  moment  your  lordship 
has  been  pleased  to  think  so. 

EGLANTINE.  The  country  girl  that  sang. 
I  had  her  sent  away. 


66  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

HARLEQUIN.  Since  the  song  caused  your 
lordship  some  discomfort. 

EGLANTINE.  Stop  her  before  she  goes.  [He 
takes  the  parchment  from  the  table.]  Stay, 
give  me  pen  and  ink.  This  is  for  her  when 
the  name  is  altered.  Her  home  I  think  you 
said.  ... 

[Harlequin  vanishes  again.  Eglantine  most 
carefully  erases  the  one  name  and  writes 
in  the  other.  Then  he  rises ,  pistol  in 
hand,  and  faces  himself  in  mirror,  looks 
himself  full  in  the  face. 

And  now,  Lord  Eglantine,  since  you  are  he ! 
Peg  for  clothes,  scribbler  of  epigrams,  now  to 
end  and  for  ever  your  tailor* s  dream. 

[And  he  fires.  But  he  doesn't  fall.  Instead , 
the  mirror  cracks  and  a  puff  of  smoke 
comes  from  it.  Alice  must  not  interrupt 
the  story  or  she  would;  and  she  aches  to, 
because  she  always  fears  the  audience  may 
not  grasp  the  point.  Lord  Eglantine  was 
a  reflection  of  his  time  in  the  polished 
mirror  of  his  age.  Until  he  blew  the  re- 
flection into  smithereens y  he  had  no  soul, 
no  reality.  A  wig,  a  box  of  patches,  snuff, 
silk,  lace,  a  clouded  cane,  a  neat  sense  for 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  67 

words,  that  was  Eglantine,  and  now  he 
has  become,  in  all  humility,  a  man.    Back 
comes  Harlequin  to  find  him. 
HARLEQUIN.     My  lord ! 
EGLANTINE.     A  slight  accident. 
HARLEQUIN.     The    noise   has    wakened    our 
neighbours. 

EGLANTINE.  On  my  honour  it  has  wakened 
me. 

HARLEQUIN.     Richardson ! 

[Columbine  appears. 
Kindly  pick  up  his  lordship's  pieces. 

[She  has  her  little  dust-pan  and  brush,  and 
most  neatly  she  does  so.  Eglantine  — 
a  new  Eglantine  —  watches  her,  and  the 
thought  of  a  new  life  is  born  in  him. 

EGLANTINE.  WeVe  a  few  guineas  in  the 
house,  I  suppose? 

HARLEQUIN.     A  few,  my  lord. 

EGLANTINE.  Enough  for  a  coach  hire  to 
the  country.  A  penniless  fellow  such  as  I 
am,  Quin,  would  she  welcome  me  to  her  home, 
I  wonder? 

HARLEQUIN.  But  I  fear  that  this  parchment 
fails  of  its  effect  unless  your  lordship  is  married 
to  the  owner. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE 


EGLANTINE.  But  not  a  bad  idea,  Quin. 
[Then  he  sighs  doubtfully.]  Would  she  think 
so? 

HARLEQUIN.  Let  US  ask  her  when  she  has 
picked  up  the  pieces. 

[And  here  Alice  and  Uncle  Edward  draw 
the  curtains,  for  the  scene  is  over.  But 
Alice  still  stands  fingering  their  folds. 
Her  eyes  smile,  but  her  mouth  droops  a 
little  doubtfully.  She  is  never  over-happy 
about  this  scene.  "  Very  pretty''  she 
hears  the  front  row  people  say;  and  then 
they  rustle  their  programmes  and  read 
about  whiskey  very  old  in  bottle,  or 
cigarettes,  a  very  special  blend.  ''Very 
pretty  "  is  so  patronising.  Someone  else 
remarks  ''How  quaint'';  and  that  is 
worse  still.  Miles  away  from  us  is  the 
meaning  of  that  eighteenth  century  with 
its  polished  perfections.  So  perfect,  yet 
so  partially  perfect,  that  mankind  could 
only  break  them  all  to  pieces  and  start 
again.  But  Alice,  tidy  little  soul,  loves 
the  fine  order  of  it  all.  If  they  embroidered 
flowers  so  well,  they  must,  she  thinks,  have 
loved  the  very  flowers,  too,  and  such  good 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  69 

mafiners  must  have  meant  that  somewhere 

underneath  the  silk  and   stays  they  had 

kind  and  worthy  souls.     But  her  mouth 

does  droop  a  little,  and  she  asks  her  unde^ 

almost  whispering : 
^^Do  you  think  they  understood  it?^^ 
^'Any   child   could   understand   it,''    Uncle 

Edward  says,  and  hack  to  his  paper  he 

goes. 
Alice  gives  a  shy  glance  round.     She  doesn't 

mind  now  if  they  do  hear. 
*^But  that's  the  trouble,  as  poor  Auntie   used 

to    say:    *  They're    not  children.'    Don't 

we  only  wish  they  were." 
Once  more,  then.  Uncle  Edward  sizes  up  the 

house;    a  good  house  now,   a  contented 

house,  a  bread-and-butter  house  not  to  be 

quarrelled  with. 
'*  You  take  your  public  as  you  find  'em,  my 

Missie,"  he  says,  or  rather,  this  he  only 

seems  to  say.    His  words  are:    ''Alice, 

get  on  with  your  bit." 
So  Alice   smiles   again,   and  smooths  her 

frock  and  puts  her  heels  together  and  turns 

out  her  toes,  and  gets  on. 


|LICE.  [As  she  faces  them.]  I  beg 
your  pardon.  Well,  that  was  in 
seventeen  hundred  and  something. 
And  we  skip  the  eighteen  hundreds 
because  they  were  so  busy :  too  busy  to  play, 
except  just  riotously,  and  we  skip  to-day,  too,  be- 
cause .  .  .  well,  really  because  what  we  showed 
you  about  to-day  with  bits  of  "you"  put  in 
it  might  seem  rather  rude.  And  we  skip  to- 
morrow, because  to-morrow  really  is  too  serious 
to  make  our  sort  of  jokes  about.  So  we  go 
right  on  to  the  day  after.  And  you've  noticed, 
haven't  you,  that  we  go  westward  all  the  time  ? 
So  next  the  scene's  in  America,  which  you  get 
to  through  New  York.  Things  have  been 
going  from  bad  to  worse  with  our  four  poor 
gods,  but  what  has  principally  knocked  them 
endways  is  machinery.  Now  America  is  full 
of  machinery.  And  they  can't  understand  it. 
For  whatever  a  machine  is  supposed  to  do  in 
the  end,  there's  one  thing  it  always  seems  sure 
to  do  in  the  beginning,  if  you're  not  very,  very 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  71 

careful.  And  that  is  to  knock  the  spirit  out 
of  a  man.  Which  is  his  magic.  Clown  and 
Pantaloon  and  Harlequin  and  Columbine  are 
very  simple  folk,  you  know.  They  let  them- 
selves be  just  what  it's  most  natural  to  be,  and 
only  try  to  give  their  friends  in  front  .  .  .  kind 
friends  in  front,  they  call  them  .  .  .  just  what 
will  make  them  happiest  quickest.  So  this  is 
what  they've  come  to  be  by  this  time,  Clown 
and  Columbine,  Harlequin  and  Pantaloon.  No 
names  but  tfiose,  no  meaning,  no  real  part  at 
all  in  the  rattle  and  clatter  of  machinery  which 
is  now  called  Life.  They're  out  of  it.  They 
clung  to  the  skirts  of  the  theatre  for  a  bit.  But 
the  theatre,  aching  to  be  "in  it",  flung  them 
off.  The  intellectual  drama  had  no  use  for 
them,  no  use  at  all.  And  so  they  found  them- 
selves (out  of  it  indeed)  busking  on  the  pave- 
ment, doing  tricks  and  tumbling  and  singing 
silly  songs  to  the  unresponsive  profiles  of  long 
lines  of  ladies  (high-nosed  or  stumpy-nosed 
ladies),  waiting  admittance  to  the  matinees  of 
some  highly  intellectual  play.  And  with  glasses 
on  those  noses  they'd  be  reading  while  they 
waited  the  book  of  that  same  play :  so  even 
then  our  poor  gods  busked  in  vain.  But  worse, 
far  worse,  .  .  . 


m  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

Along  came  the  Man  of  the  World  again. 
He  calls  himself  the  Man  of  Business 
now.  "Do  the  Public  really  want  this  sort 
of  stuff?"  he  said.  "Well,  let  'em  have 
it.  But  as  a  Business  Proposition,  if  you 
please." 

So  he  bought  up  all  the  theatres,  and  he  said 
he'd  make  them  pay.  And  his  cousin,  the  Man 
in  the  Street,  took  shares.  And  they  organised 
the  Theatre.  And  they  made  it  efficient. 
And  they  conducted  it  on  sound  commercial 
lines.  And  the  magic  vanished  and  people 
wondered  where  and  why.  Now  what  we're 
going  to  show  you,  you  won't  believe  could 
ever  happen  at  all.  It  does  seem  like  the 
cheapest  of  cheap  jokes.  But  really  if  we 
will  think  magic's  to  be  bought  and  sold,  and 
if  we  leave  our  gods  to  starve  because  there 
isn't  any  money  in  their  laughter  or  their 
tears  .  .  .  well,  it's  more  than  the  Theatre  that 
may  suffer.  But  the  poor  pampered  Theatre 
is  our  business  now,  and  here's  our  cheap,  cheap 
joke  about  it.  You  aren't  expected  to  laugh 
...  in  fact,  perhaps  you  shouldn't.  It's  one 
of  those  jokes  you  smile  at,  crookedly  you  know, 
this  joke  of  the  Theatre  as  it  well  may  be  the 
day  after  to-morrow  if  some  of  us  don't  look  out. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  73 

[And  with  that  we  hear  music.  It's  a  rag- 
time tune,  and  something  about  it  hurts 
us.  After  ten  bars  we  find  out  what  and 
why.  It  is  the  theme  of  the  gods  cheap- 
ened and  degraded.  Music  is  of  all  the 
arts  the  directest  epitome  of  life.  Not 
a  noble  thing  in  it  that  cannot,  it  would 
seem,  with  just  a  turn  or  two,  be  turned 
to  baseness. 

Alice  and  Uncle  Edward  draw  back  the  cur- 
tains, and  there's  another  curtain  to  be 
seen.  It  is  not  beautiful  to  look  at  —  but 
it's  useful.  It  has  six  advertisements 
painted  on  it  in  '^ screami7tg"  colour. 
''Eat  and  keep  thin"  says  one.  ''Drink 
and  keep  sober"  says  the  next,  and  Some- 
body's Patent  Something  is  the  way. 
"  Indulge  freely;  we  take  the  consequence  "  , 
the  motto  runs  beneath  the  two.  "Patent 
pearls  that  will  deceive  an  oyster"  says 
the  third.  The  fourth's  a  Face  Cream, 
and  the  fifth's  for  Shattered  Nerves.  The 
sixth  says,  "Believe  in  our  Patent  God  and 
you  shall  assuredly  be  saved."  From  one 
side  comes  the  Man  of  the  World  —  Man 
of  Business  —  Business  Manager.  Silk 
hat,    dress    coat,    white   waistcoat,    shiny 


74  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

shirt,  patent  hoots,  and  big  cigar;  he's  very 
smart  and  prosperous  indeed.  From  the 
other  side  come  the  four  poor  gods,  out  of 
work  buskers  of  the  streets,  down  at  heel 
and  weary.  But  still  gods,  and  with  a 
god-like  snap  of  ill-temper  to  them  for  you 
to  know  them  by. 

CLOWN.     Morning. 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.     Aftemoon. 

CLOWN.  Is  it?  Now  [Says  he  to  the  others], 
you  leave  it  to  me,  and  let's  all  keep  our  tem- 
pers. See  here,  Mr.  Man,  is  this  the  old  99th 
Street  Theay ter  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  This,  sir,  and  you  know 
it  as  well  as  I  do,  is  nothing  so  out  of  date.  It 
is  Number  2613  of  the  five  thousand  Attrac- 
tion Houses  controlled  by  the  Hustle  Trust 
Circuit  of  Automatic  Drama :  President,  Mr. 
Theodor  B.  Kedger.  But  it  is  located  on  99th 
Street,  New  York  City. 

CLOWN.     Are  you  the  boss  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  I  am  a  deputy  sub- 
inspector  of  the  New  York  and  New  Jersey 
division  of  the  circuit. 

CLOWN.  Can  we  have  a  job,  me  and  my  pals, 
here? 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  75 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.     You  Cannot. 

CLOWN.     And  why  not  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  Becausc  you  are  super- 
seded. 

CLOWN.    What's  that  ? 

PANTALOON.  I'll  super  if  there's  nothing 
better. 

CLOWN.     Where  is  the  durn  President? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  I  learn  from  the  fash- 
ionable intelligence  that  he  is  at  present  cruising 
the  Mediterranean  on  his  electric  yacht. 

CLOWN.     Where's  the  author  of  the  piece  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  There  ain't  no  author 
of  the  piece.  This  present  item  is  turned  out 
by  our  Number  Two  Factory  of  Automatic 
Dramaturgy ;   Plunkville,  Tennessee. 

CLOWN.  Where  are  the  other  actors  .  .  . 
God  help  'em  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  There  ain't  no  actors  ; 
we  froze  all  them  out  way  back.  Where' ve  you 
been  that  you've  grown  all  these  mossy  ideas 
on  you  ? 

CLOWN.  Never  you  mind.  Tell  us,  what's 
come  to  the  poor  old  99th  Street  Theayter  .  .  . 
and  how. 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  Well,  I  guess  I  need  only 
quote  you  from  Volume  One  of  the  Life  of  Mr. 


76  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

Theodor  B.  Kedger,  our  esteemed  President 
.  .  .  Nit !  [And  as  he  says  "  Nit,''  if  it  were  not 
for  all  the  anti-expectoration  notices  hung  round 
he  would  certainly  ^pit.]  It  is  stacked  ready 
to  put  on  the  market  the  day  he  passes  in  his 
checks.  Hold  on  now.  About  the  year  191 8 
Mr.  Kedger,  who  had  already  financially  made 
good  over  the  manipulation  of  wood-pulp 
potatoes,  synthetic  bread,  and  real  estate, 
turned  his  attention  to  the  Anglo-American 
Theatre.  For  the  Anglo-American  Theatre 
did  not  pay.  Here  was  Mr.  Kedger's  oppor- 
tunity. Forming  a  small  trust,  he  bought  up 
the  theatres,  both  of  the  Variety  and  of  the 
Monotonous  kind,  bought  up  the  dramatists 
with  their  copyrights  present  and  future, 
bought  up  the  actors  — 

PANTALOON.     Didn't  buy  me. 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.     Didn't  count  you. 

CLOWN.     Cost  much  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  [He  winks.]  The  pay- 
ment was  partly  made  in  shares.  He  then  paid 
the  Dramatists  considerable  sums  not  to  go  on 
writing,  which  was,  of  course,  a  clear  profit. 
He  paid  the  actors  to  stop  acting,  which  was 
in  some  cases  a  needless  expenditure  of  money. 
He  also  brought  in  the  Cinema  and  Gramophone 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  77 

interests,  organising  the  whole  affair  upon  a 
strictly  business  basis. 

PANTALOON.  He  left  us  out.  We've  had 
cruel  hard  times,  but  Fm  glad  he  left  us  out. 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  Then  followed  some 
years  of  experiment  in  the  scientific  manu- 
facture and  blending  of  drama.  As  I  speak,  no 
less  than  twenty-three  factories  dot  the  grassy 
meads  of  America.  The  work  is  done  by  clerks 
employed  at  moderate  salaries  for  eight  hours 
a  day.  For  the  cerebration  of  whatever  new 
ideas  may  be  needed,  several  French  literary 
men  are  kept  in  chains  in  the  backyard,  being 
fed  exclusively  on  absinthe  and  caviare  sand- 
wiches during  their  periods  of  creative  activity. 
No  less  than  forty  different  brands  of  drama 
are  turned  out,  each  with  its  description  stamped 
clearly  on  the  can.  While  a  complete  equip- 
ment for  anyone  can  be  travelled  by  the 
operator  in  his  valise,  still  leaving  room  for 
toothbrush  and  slumber-suit. 

CLOWN.     Do  the  public  like  the  stuff  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  They've  got  to  like  it. 
They  get  none  else. 

CLOWN.  Can't  you  give  us  another  chance? 
I'll  lay  we  could  make  good. 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.     Sorry,  sonny,  but  I 


78  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

don't  see  how  you'd  fit  in.  Watch  this  at- 
traction I'm  going  to  try  over. 

CLOWN.     You  still  rehearse,  do  you  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  Once.  Would  you  like 
to  watch  ?    Then  you'll  see. 

CLOWN.    What's   it   called? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  It's  called  "Love:  a 
Disease",  and  it's  Number  seventy-six  of  the 
High  Brow  Ibsen  series.  It  ain't  got  nothing 
to  do  with  Ibsen  really,  but  his  is  still  a  name 
that  sells.  He  was  a  German  professor  of 
mathematics  and  highly  respected  in  his  day. 
I'll  have  you  see  a  bit  of  one  act. 

COLUMBINE.     What's  the  plot  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  No  plot.  It's  a  home 
life  story,  a  conversation.  A  man  is  telling  a 
woman  that  he  is  just  bored  stiff  with  every- 
thing on  earth. 

PANTALOON.      Ah  ! 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  And  she  doesn't  know 
what  to  say.     That's  the  first  act. 

CLOWN.     Gosh ! 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  In  the  next  he's  asking 
her  advice  as  to  whether  a  really  tired  man 
ought  to  marry.    And  she  doesn't  know. 

CLOWN.     How  long  does  that  take  ? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.    Quite  a  while. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  79 

CLOWN.  Which  is  the  act  we  are  going  to 
see? 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  The  third.  It  contains 
the  action.  About  half-way  through  he  moves 
across  to  her  and  says  :  ''Don't  cry,  little  girl, 
I  can  always  shoot  myself!"  And  then  he 
finds  out  that  she  is  stone  deaf  from  birth,  and 
hasn't  really  heard  a  word  he  said.  So  she 
goes  forth  into  the  world  to  learn  the  Oral  sys- 
tem, while  he  awaits  her  return,  when  he  will 
begin  again.    Are  you  ready?     I'll  ring  up. 

[Quite  wonderfully  the  big  cigar  shifts  to  one 
corner  of  his  mouth,  almost  in  line  with  his 
ear,  and  he  whistles  shrilly.  The  curtain 
of  the  ^^  six  ads  J'  flies  away,  and  there's 
the  automatic  drama  in  full  swing.  Three 
canvas  walls,  liberally  stencilled  in  the 
worst  Munich  style.  And  in  this  space  are 
two  pink  gramophones  on  two  green  ped- 
estals. One  is  gilt-lettered  '  'A  rthur. '  *  The 
other  silver -lettered  * '  Grace. ' '  The  trumpets 
incline  to  each  other  a  little,  for  this  is  a 
love  scene  going  on.  On  a  white  framed 
space  in  the  back  wall,  stage  directions 
are  written  moviely.  This  one  spells 
out  ^^  Arthur  is  still  speaking.    He  crosses 


80  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

his  legs  and  takes  an  asthma  cigar ettey 
Then  the  gilt-lettered  phonograph  croaks: — 

ARTHUR.  After  all,  what  is  love  but  a  disease 
of  the  imagination?  Don't  cry,  little  girl,  I 
can  always  shoot  myself ! 

GRACE.  [Who  croaks  an  octave  higher,]  I'm 
not  crying.     Tell  me  more. 

[Moviely  the  stage  direction  conies:    *'He 
leans  forward.'' 

ARTHUR.  But  why  should  there  be  one  law 
for  women  and  another  for  men?  One  law 
for  childhood  and  another  for  old  age?  Why 
skirts,  why  trousers?  Why  those  monotonies 
of  sensation  and  experience?  Why  this  un- 
reality, this  hypocrisy,  this  cowardice,  this 
exaltation  of  the  super-sham  ?    Why  .  .  .  ? 

[Moviely  at  the  back  is  written:  ''She  leans 
forward,  too.'' 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  Now  the  emotioH 
thickens ! 

GRACE.     Let  us  go  back  to  the  beginning. 

PANTALOON.     I  Can't  hear  none  of  this. 

CLOWN.  If  you  worked  Pictures  with  it,  it 
mightn't  be  so  bad  ...  for  them  as  likes  this 
sort  of  stuff. 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  81 


MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  We  do  work  Pictures 
with  the  lighter  and  fruitier  forms  of  drama. 
But  here  they  would  only  obfuscate  the  cere- 
bration. Wait  till  she  cerebrates.  And  she 
cerebrates  some! 

GRACE.  No  child  at  her  mother's  knee  was 
more  innocent  than  I.  How  then  did  knowledge 
of  good  and  evil  come  ?  I  will  tell  you.  I  will 
tell  you  of  the  evil  first  ... 

PANTALOON.  Columbine,  you  go  and  wait 
outside. 

GRACE.    [With  a  louder  croak.]    Passion  .  .  . ! 

CLOWN.     Stop ! 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.     Don't  interrupt. 

CLOWN.  She  ain't  got  no  right  to  it  with  a 
voice  like  that. 

GRACE.     Laughter  .  .  . ! 

CLOWN.  Never  laughed  in  her  life !  Never 
had  a  life  to  laugh  in  ! 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  Young  man,  if  this 
were  a  performance,  you  would  be  dealt  with 
by  our  aesthetic  policewoman.  Vulgar  com- 
ments made  in  public  upon  works  of  art  are 
now  an  indictable  offence. 

CLOWN.    Works  of  what? 

GRACE.     .  .  .  And  the  joy  of  life ! 

CLOWN.    Stop,  I  say  ! 


82  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  For  the  last  time  .  .  . 
don't  interrupt. 

CLOWN.  I  will  interrupt.  And  I'll  smash 
those  durned  machines,  though  the  last  Clown 
in  the  world  is  hung  for  it.  For  that's  me 
.  .  .  that's  me !  Oh,  has  it  come  to  this,  after 
all  we've  done  for  the  theatre!  Haven't  we 
loved  it,  Grandfer,  haven't  we?  My  red-hot 
poker's  in  pawn,  and  I've  worn  out  the  sau- 
sages. But  let's  have  a  try  to  make  him  laugh. 
Take  the  starch  out  of  him !  Take  the  bank- 
note rustle  out  of  him !  Take  the  Theatre 
from  him.  Save  it  and  save  him,  too !  Come 
on,  old  'un.  Kiss  your  hand.  Columbine. 
Harlequin,  if  you  love  me,  if  you  love  the 
drama,  have  one  more  try.  Magic  .  .  .  Magic ! 
Turn  these  clicking  clocks  there  back  into  whole- 
some human  bad  actors  again,  and  turn  the 
Deputy  Inspector  of  the  New  York  Circuit  of 
the  Hustle  Bustle  Trust  of  Automatic  .  .  . 

[Columbine  trips  across  the  stage.  Pantaloon 
chuckles.  Clown  tumbles  head  over  heels 
and  sends  the  Man  of  the  World  flying. 
Harlequin  leaps  in  the  air  and  smites 
with  his  wand  the  two  pink  gramophones 
on  the  two  green  stands.     They  vanish  I 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  83 

Down  through  a  trap  goes  the  Man  of  the 
World.    Red   Fire!    And  Alice,  as  she 
tugs  the  curtains  to,   calls  in  her  most 
stentorian  tones  .  .  . 
ALICE.     Grand  transformation  scene !     I  al- 
ways draw  the  curtains  rather  quick  because 
it  never  works  quite  right. 

[She  waits  a  little,  and  then,  very  simply,  says 
The  gods  go  back  ... 

[And  stops  and  swallows.  Poor  dear,  her 
throat  is  dry. 
UNCLE  EDWARD.  You  want  your  glass  of  milk. 
ALICE.  They  don't  ever  really  go.  For 
what  would  become  of  us  without  them? 
But  it  rounds  off  the  play.  They  just  go 
back  as  flowers  die  to  come  again  forever. 
For  the  seed  of  the  gods  is  sown  in  the  hearts 
of  men.  The  seeds  of  Love  and  of  the  Magic 
of  High  Adventure  and  of  Laughter  and  of  Fool- 
ishness, too.  Well,  when  they  reach  the  Styx 
there  still  sits  that  philosopher,  who  wasn't  a 
philosopher  at  all  because  he  sought  no  wisdom 
but  his  own.  Because  of  that,  you  see,  he  has 
found  none.  There  he  sits,  deaf  and  blind, 
while  Olympus  flashes  and  thunders  behind  him. 
There  he  sits,  chattering  that  there  are  no  gods. 


HE  curtains  are  drawn  hack  on  the 
last  scene.  The  Styx  again,  flowing 
black  beneath  its  black  mountains. 
There  sits  the  Philosopher,  patiently. 
He  is  dressed  now  as  a  Member  of  Par- 
liament, or  worse.  He  has  a  fountain  pen 
and  a  notebook.  And  the  gods  arrive. 
Mercury,  Charon,  Momus,  and  Psyche, 

PHILOSOPHER.     Who  are  you  ? 

MERCURY.    We  are  the  gods  returning. 

PHILOSOPHER.  [Very  definitely  indeed.]  There 
are  no  gods.  Though  from  time  to  time  it  has 
been  necessary  to  invent  them. 

PANTALOON.  Why,  it's  my  friend,  the  philos- 
opher ! 

PHILOSOPHER.  Pardon  me.  Nothing  so  un- 
practical. I  am  a  Political  Economist.  I 
write  Blue  Books.     I  make  laws. 

MERCURY.     Can  you  row  us  over  ? 

PHILOSOPHER.  What  a  question !  I  have 
established  several  rowing  academies.  I  know 
how  rowing  is  done.     But,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 

84 


THE   HARLEQUINADE  85 

I  cannot  row.  Still  it's  of  little  consequence, 
for  the  boat  was  given  to  a  museum  some  time 
ago.  Besides,  the  latest  theories  tell  us  that 
there  is  no  other  side. 

CLOWN.  Ain't  there?  Well,  I'm  going  to 
swim  and  see. 

PHILOSOPHER.  Pardon  me,  bathing  is  not 
allowed  in  the  Styx. 

CLOWN.     Ain't  it? 

[Off  tumbles  Momus,  and  you  hear  him  splash 
in  the  river.  The  Political  Economist  has 
risen  indignantly.  Under  the  bench,  dusty 
and  neglected,  Psyche  spies  something.  She 
runs  to  see.  With  a  little  cry  she  picks 
them  up,  and  shakes  and  smooths  them. 
They  are  the  Talaria.  {Do  you  know  what 
Talaria  are?  Look  up  Mercurius  in 
Lempriere's   Classical  Dictionary.) 

MERCURY.     Wings  !     My  wings  ! 

PHILOSOPHER.  Yes,  they  are  wings.  Left 
here  by  two  children,  and  I  hadn't  the  heart 
to  destroy  them.  But  I  hid  them  away ;  they 
are  dangerous.  The  very  sight  of  wings  makes 
men  and  women  feel  above  themselves. 

MERCURY.     Bind  them  on. 

[And  Psyche  kneels  to  bind  them  on  his  feet. 


86  THE  HARLEQUINADE 

Sir,  I  return  you  your  rags  and  your  mask. 
They  are  at  least  more  picturesque  than 
your  present  attire.  Listen,  the  great  gods 
are  waking !  Monday  morning  in  Olympus. 
Charon,  stay  with  this  fellow.  He  means 
well  by  the  world;  but  teach  him  to  rebuild 
the  boat.  For  when  his  work  is  done  he'll 
be  glad  to  escape  and  to  rest  as  you  row  him 
across  the  river.    Psyche,  we're  late.    Let  us  fly. 

[For  the  last  time  the  blue  curtains  close. 

UNCLE  EDWARD.  Now,  your  last  bit  .  .  . 
the  bit  the  journalist  wrote  in  your  album. 

ALICE.     Oh,  yes,  if  you  please,  you're  to  be 
sure  and  remember  that :  — 
In  the  noise  and  haste  and  bustle 
Fairies  on  the  lamplit  pavements ; 
Gods  in  gorse  and  heath  and  heather ; 
Fauns  behind  the  hedges  playing ; 
Pan  about  in  any  weather. 
Children  hear  them,  see  them,  know  them ; 
See  the  things  the  fairies  show  them, 
Harlequin  in  magic  poses ; 
Columbine  among  the  roses  ; 
Pantaloon  in  slippered  ease  is 
Laughing  at  Clown's  ancient  wheezes 
In  the  Summer,  in  the  Spring, 


THE  HARLEQUINADE  87 

In  the  sunshine,  in  the  rain, 
Summon  them  and  hear  them  cry  — 
**  Here  we  are  again." 

That's  all,  isn't  it,  Uncle? 
UNCLE  EDWARD.     Yes,  that's  all. 
ALICE.     Good  night. 

[And  so,  the  Harlequinade  being  over,  we  go 
home.  A  little  later  Alice  and  Uncle 
Edward  and  the  actors,  all  rather  tired 
and  ready  for  supper,  start  home,  too. 


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